Ignacio Villanueva couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t know how to read. He thought that, although he probably had begun to develop this skill somewhere between his second and third years, his earliest memory of reading consisted of single word messages in English and Spanish; Stop, Alta, Trash, Basura. Soon afterwards came short phrases: No Smoking, No Se Fumar, Don’t Walk, No Andar. Not much time passed between this activity and his reading of bilingual handbills about ladder safety and handling pesticides posted next to the patron’s tool shed. If Ignacio had been born of middle class parents in California instead of Mexican farm workers, he might have been given an intelligence test and, upon registering a score commensurate with his I.Q., he might have been hailed as a genius or a prodigy, although
his brothers and sisters didn’t see much value in his precocious ability to speak and read two languages. To them, he was a lazy daydreamer. Yet, one day, when Ignacio was five, their father announced to the family that Ignacio would go to the local mission school while the rest of the family worked in the fields.
The priests at the mission school thought that Ignacio’s being allowed to matriculate there was a gift from God. They had been praying about a religious leader who could rise from the ranks of the people who toiled in the various orchards and farms nearby. They were amazed by his facility in reading and writing—not only English and Spanish, but Latin as well. Surely, they reasoned, he was destined to become a Catholic scholar and lead his people. To keep him from getting bored, they accelerated his lessons. By the time he was eight, he was doing eighth grade work.
When Ignacio was eleven, his father developed a middle ear infection that made him so dizzy he couldn’t stand up. A curandera was called in to conduct a healing ceremony that included the inhaling of special herbs and praying to the santos, but her blessings and special herbs had no immediate effect.
Three days later, Ignacio’s mother was desperate. “Dios mio!” she said, making the Sign of the Cross. “We need the money. What can we do?”
“Take the boy out of school tomorrow,” Ignacio’s father ordered. “He can work in the fields until I get better.”
That night, Ignacio’s mother gathered her six children and made them kneel next to their mattresses on the dirt floor of their hut while she prayed for a milagro. Then she turned off the lantern, which was their signal to lie down and sleep. But Ignacio wasn’t tired. He grabbed a
book of English poetry, took the lantern, struck a match, and relit it.
“Put that light out,” his father ordered.
“But I need to read my assignment for school tomorrow,” Ignacio said.
“No you don’t,” his father said. “Tomorrow you work in the fields.”
“But what about school?” Ignacio asked.
“School will still be there. After I get well, you can go back.”
Ignacio shut off the lantern and put his book away, but he didn’t lie down. He spent most of the night brooding.
Before three the next morning, everyone except Ignacio’s father got up, bustled about and got ready for work. Ignacio was up, too, scrambling to get ready and trying to figure out where to
hide a paperback copy of Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations that a priest had given him. For lack of any better place, he shoved it into his back pocket.
When everyone was ready, Ignacio’s mother prayed the rosary while they all knelt quietly on the dirt floor. Leaning heavily on the wall next to his mattress, Ignacio’s father struggled to inch his way up to his feet. Less than halfway up, he fell back on his mattress. “Mira,” he said.
“Show Ignacio how to do the work. And tomorrow, if I can stand up without falling, I will go myself, and he can go back to school.”
“But how will you be able to do that?” Ignacio’s mother asked.
“The work of the curandera may not be fast,” he said, “but it will be sure. I will get better.” Everyone present made the Sign of the Cross.
Quietly, they ate tortillas, beans, and rice. Miguel and Lupita—the two older children—drank coffee while David, Benjamin, Carlos and Ignacio drank tepid orange juice. Miguel, the second oldest, passed out stale candy bars. When he got to Ignacio, Ignacio refused his.
“Go ahead, hermanito,” Miguel said. “You’ll need it for energy.”
“I’ll be all right,” Ignacio said.
Miquel shrugged and put the candy bar back into his pack.
“What’s that in your back pocket?” Ignacio’s mother asked.
Ignacio said nothing.
“Leave that book here,” she said. “You might lose it. Besides, you won’t have time to read no books.”
“I won’t lose it,” Ignacio insisted. “I brought it along so I can read it while I eat lunch. That way, I won’t be so far behind when I get back to school.”
Ignacio’s parents exchanged glances. His father shrugged.
“All right,” his mother said. “But I don’t want to hear any complaining when you lose it.”
When they got to the farm, the other workers were gathering in swarms, waiting for the trucks to take them to the fields. Jose, the straw boss—a tall, slender man whose face was cracked and shiny like old leather—came up to Ignacio’s mother. “How is your husband today?” he asked.
“He still can’t stand up,” she said. “But when he can, he’ll be out here first thing.”
“I know he will,” the straw boss said. “But you need to step up your production. Last week after he got sick, you all picked a lot less asparagus. We’ve got whole families waiting for a job that can pick more than your family. The only reason I’m not giving them a chance is
because your husband is such a good worker.”
“I know,” Ignacio’s mother said, making the Sign of the Cross. “We will make it all up to you when he comes back. I brought my other son today. The one who usually goes to school.”
“Let’s hope your schoolboy is the miracle you need.”
Ignacio and his family climbed onto the bed of a stake truck along with several other workers. Fifteen minutes later, the truck was negotiating a road that bisected a large field of asparagus. “Damned asparagus!” Miguel complained. “I hate this stuff more than anything!”
Lupita, the oldest, disagreed. “It’s all the same to me,” she said. “Asparagus now, apples later. Between my back aching from all that stooping and the pain in my arms and shoulders from all that reaching, I don’t know which is worse.”
Ignacio’s mother chuckled. “You think it hurts now, m’ija? Just wait till you get older.”
Ignacio heard none of this conversation. Using a small flashlight he had stolen from the mission school, he was reading about a boy named Pip, who had just run into an escaped convict in a church graveyard.
The truck came to a stop. The workers jumped off like deploying soldiers and got into single file in front of the tool shed. Ignacio would have been the last one off the truck if Miquel and Lupita hadn’t grabbed him under his arms and hoisted him out with them. Two older men in straw hats stood in front of the shed, passing out large cloth bags and tools to cut the asparagus stalks from their roots. Lupita explained to Ignacio that the cut asparagus was to be kept in the bag. The line moved rapidly as each worker grabbed a bag, flung the bag’s strap over one shoulder, grabbed a long-handled cutting tool that lay on a bench nearby, and took off for the
fields. Ignacio was hoping they would run out of bags and tools by the time they got to him. No such luck. The bag thrown at him was so big it almost knocked him over. He caught it, snarled himself in it, and almost fell. His brother and sister unsnarled him, threw the strap over his head, pulled the rest of the bag down over his shoulder and jerked his arm through the space between the top of the bag and the strap. At the same time, Lupita shoved an asparagus cutting tool into Ignacio’s hand. Immediately, Ignacio turned and jumped into the scrum of workers getting ready to pick, the bag trailing behind him like a shadow.
Miquel and Lupita caught their bags and grabbed their cutting tools. When they looked around, Ignacio was nowhere in sight. “Where did he go?” Lupita asked.
“There’s no time to look,” Miquel said. “He probably went down to the out-house. We’ll run into him later.”
On the other side of the scrum, Ignacio ran down the embankment toward the out-house, where he crouched and waited for the other workers to go out into the fields and the two old men to shut up the shed and leave. He tried to read by the out-house, but the stench distracted him. When he saw everyone was gone, he came up to the shed and sat down with his back against it. He took out his flashlight and book and began reading.
Shortly after sunrise, Ignacio’s mother spotted Miguel and Lupita cutting asparagus in rows next to each other. She yelled across. “How is Ignacio doing?”
“We don’t know!” Lupita yelled. “We haven’t seen him since they passed out the bags.”
Ignacio’s mother finished her row and went looking for Ignacio. She searched the area around the shed first. As she rounded the first corner, she spotted him.
Ignacio did not hear her coming. He was too engrossed in reading about Pip’s first encounter with a bitter, veiled crone named Miss Havisham and her beautiful, emotionless daughter, Estella. His concentration was broken when he heard his mother say, “What are you doing?” Before he could answer, she snatched the book from his grasp and pitched it into the irrigation canal. Ignacio turned and watched helplessly as it slowly capsized in the smoothly flowing water. “Follow me,” she said, grabbing his arm roughly. She took him to the row in which Miguel was cutting asparagus. She handed Ignacio and his asparagus cutting tool to Miguel. “Teach him!” she barked.
Miguel guided Ignacio through the process of cutting asparagus. “Come on,” he said. “This isn’t hard. I thought you were supposed to be smart.”
“I’m smart with books, not tools,” Ignacio replied. He stooped, cut, and bagged for an hour. “Am I doing all right now?” he asked.
“Yeah, fine,” Miguel said. “Now go find a row of your own.”
Ignacio walked away, searching not for a fresh row of asparagus, but for a place to hide. He crossed the field and went down the embankment to the irrigation ditch. In the tall grass next to the water, he lay down and tried to imagine what his lessons in school would have been for that day. Before he knew it, he had fallen asleep.
Several hours passed before anyone found him. One of the older men, who had come down to urinate next to the ditch, almost sprayed him. “You all right, muchacho?” he asked when he woke Ignacio. “You ain’t sick or nothing, are you?” Ignacio shook his head. The man grabbed his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. “Well, if you ain’t gonna cut no asparagus, turn
in your bag and go home.”
The old man grabbed Ignacio by the arm and marched him over to where Jose, the straw boss, was standing and explained the situation. Jose took off his straw hat and studied Ignacio while he wiping his forehead with his red bandana. He put his hat back on and called for Ignacio’s mother. “Is this one yours?” he asked.
Embarrassed, she looked down at the ground and nodded.
The straw boss grabbed the strap of Ignacio’s bag and yanked it from his shoulder. The bag contained only twenty pounds of asparagus. “We can’t have this, señora. There are too many families out there looking for work. Families that need the money worse than you even. Not only is this muchacho not doing his own work, but he is slowing down the rest of you.”
Ignacio’s mother grabbed Ignacio by the back of his collar and pulled him out into the field. “Cut!” she demanded. “You stay in this row, and cut! Put your asparagus in my bag.”
Ignacio made a desultory attempt to slice through a stalk. His mother took both of her strong, brown hands, grabbed the front of his collar and shook him. “What is that you just did?” she demanded. “Is your back broken? Bend! Bend and cut the asparagus!” Ignacio bent and cut. “No!” she said. “Not like that. Lower to the ground! Don’t be such a baby!” Ignacio cut lower. “That’s the way!” she shouted. “Like that!”
They worked all day and another two hours past sunset. When the trucks came, Ignacio was grateful. For the last three hours, he had felt a burning sensation shooting through his lower back and legs like flames.
When they got back to the hut, Ignacio’s father had the lantern lit. The lantern, which he placed on the floor, threw ghostly shadows on the walls of the hut as Ignacio’s mother told his father what Ignacio had done.
Ignacio’s father crawled up against the wall. Using the wall, he placed his back against it and hoisted himself up. When he got into a full sitting position, he motioned for Ignacio to sit beside him. “Do you know why I send you to school, m’ijo?” he asked.
Ignacio didn’t say anything while he watched the light from the lantern dance across his father’s face. Then he answered. “I’m smart?”
“You brothers and sisters are smart, too, m’ijo. In different ways from you.”
Ignacio nodded.
“Listen, m’ijo. When I was a young man and I had just met your mother, I went to see a powerful mujer who could see into the future. Do you know what she told me?”
Ignacio shook his head.
“She said I should marry this wonderful woman, your mother. She said if I married her, my life would be better. Was she wrong?”
Ignacio didn’t know what to say. He kept looking at his father.
“She told me this woman would bless me in many different ways, and we would have lots of children together. And all the children would be healthy and smart. Was she wrong?”
Ignacio chose not to speak.
“She said one of them would be smarter than all the others when it came to books and reading. Was she wrong?”
Ignacio looked down at the floor. Afer a pause, he said, “No, father.”
“This fortuneteller told me to send this child to the mission school. So he could get an education and help many people during his lifetime. Was she wrong, m’ijo? Was she wrong about you?”
Ignacio kept staring at the floor. “No, father,” he repeated.
Ignacio’s father took Ignacio’s chin in his hand and turned the boy’s face to him. “Right now, Ignacio, we have a little problem. I cannot work again until I can stand up without falling over. When I can do that, I’ll go back to the fields, and you can go back to school. Entiendes?”
Ignacio nodded.
“So, if you want to go back to school, you will have to work in the fields as hard as you can until I get back. Do you see?”
“I see, father,” Ignacio said.
“Do you promise to do that?”
“I promise.”
Just then, Lupita handed Ignacio a metal pie pan with beans and tortillas on it. “Here,” she said. “Eat. Although you don’t deserve it.”
The next morning, Ignacio was out of bed before any of his brothers and sisters. He grabbed a thin volume of poetry from under his mattress and stuffed it into his back pocket. Just for breaks and lunchtime, he told himself.
When the family got to the farm, he was the first person to get on the truck. He was among the first to get off and grab a bag and cutting tool. He ran out to the field, beating even Miguel and Lupita to the asparagus. Before the sun came up, he had cut and captured a considerable amount of asparagus in his big floppy bag. He was a boy possessed, savagely
attacking the asparagus with a warrior’s resolve while the rising sun appeared as a sliver of molten gold above the horizon. After the sun’s golden globe rose higher in the sky, Ignacio stopped cutting and wiped his sweating face with his bandana. He looked down at his asparagus bag. It contained enough stalks to make him uncomfortable lugging it around. He dragged it over to where Miguel was cutting.
Miguel looked down at Ignacio’s bag and grinned. “Good work, hermanito!”
“Can I dump these into your bag?” Ignacio asked.
“What do you want to do that for?” Miguel said.
“This is getting too heavy, and I have to run down to the toilets. When I come back, I can start all over again.”
Miguel hoisted Ignacio’s bag and emptied it into his own. Ignacio took the empty bag and ran to the out-house on the other side of the embankment. When he was through, he ran down to the irrigation ditch. He realized he shouldn’t have stopped working. It made him conscious of how tired he was. He sat down and took the poetry book out of his pocket. He read aloud, “I caught this morning morning’s minion.” Suddenly, he felt someone grab his shoulder.
He looked up. It was Jose.
“What are you doing, muchacho?” Jose said.
Ignacio wanted to say he just got here. That he already cut so much asparagus that he couldn’t carry his bag around. But he looked at his empty bag and knew that, if he said this, Jose would not believe him. Sheepishly, he stood up and stuffed the poetry book into his back pocket.
“Follow me,” Jose said.
He followed Jose until they both stopped in front of Ignacio’s mother. She was busy cutting, but she could feel their presence. Without interrupting her cutting, she glanced up. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I found this one reading a book down by the irrigation ditch,” Jose said. “His bag didn’t have a single stalk of asparagus in it.”
Ignacio’s mother stopped cutting and fixed him with an angry look. “You promised your father you were going to do better,” she said.
Ignacio looked at his feet.
“I can’t have him out there doing nothing,” Jose said. “In fact, when he does nothing, then you and your other children have to get involved, and that cuts down on the amount of asparagus all of you can pick. I don’t ever want to see this muchacho in these fields again. I can’t afford it, and neither can you.”
“What about the rest of the day?” Ignacio’s mother asked. “Can’t he stay and cut for the rest of the day?”
Jose shook his head. “You know he’s not going to do that. You might as well let him sit down by the irrigation ditch and watch the water run by. I don’t want him up here setting a bad example for the other children.”
Ignacio relinquished his bag and cutting tool and walked slowly to the irrigation ditch. When he got there, he sat down and stared off into space. After a while, he took out his poetry book and read:
“No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief.
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
Comforter, where, where is your comforting?”
Saturday, June 26
LA MORENITA, Chapter 29
It was about this time that a boy named Ignacio kept dominating Araceli’s thoughts. He had such a strong presence that Araceli had begun to write sentences about him. This befuddled her because Ignacio’s story had begun to fill spaces in the story she wrote about her parents, the urge to record her thoughts about Ignacio were too strong to ignore.
One night while sleeping, she dreamt she was down by the river, sitting on a park bench when the raven flew in behind her and landed on her shoulder. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought I would never see you again.”
“I told you the right person would be here to help,” the raven replied. “So why do you think you need me?”
“This boy comes out of nowhere and lands in my thoughts.”
“This boy?”
“Ignacio, or Nacho, or something like that. I know he was born about thirty years ago in Piedras Negras, Mexico, and his family worked in the fields in Texas. So why he is in my mind, I don’t know.”
“Do you think that is strange?”
Araceli could see, in her mind’s eye, this Ignacio as an infant, bright as a copper penny with hair the color of a midnight sky and inquisitive brown eyes. She observed him as a toddler, learning in an easy, intuitive way the languages of two cultures, surrounded by a large family that she had no sense of except for vague shapes and sizes. She saw him sitting attentively in mission school classes as the priests taught him lessons beyond his natural years. Yet somehow, Araceli sensed something was awry with him. She wondered how this total stranger thirty years her senior–especially one that lived in a campesino’s hut with a dirt floor more than 2,000 miles away–could possibly impact her future. She nodded.
“You need to find out about this boy, because his life affects yours.”
“How?”
“You need to keep writing to find out.”
“But why?” asked Araceli. She turned around, but the bird was gone.
One night while sleeping, she dreamt she was down by the river, sitting on a park bench when the raven flew in behind her and landed on her shoulder. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought I would never see you again.”
“I told you the right person would be here to help,” the raven replied. “So why do you think you need me?”
“This boy comes out of nowhere and lands in my thoughts.”
“This boy?”
“Ignacio, or Nacho, or something like that. I know he was born about thirty years ago in Piedras Negras, Mexico, and his family worked in the fields in Texas. So why he is in my mind, I don’t know.”
“Do you think that is strange?”
Araceli could see, in her mind’s eye, this Ignacio as an infant, bright as a copper penny with hair the color of a midnight sky and inquisitive brown eyes. She observed him as a toddler, learning in an easy, intuitive way the languages of two cultures, surrounded by a large family that she had no sense of except for vague shapes and sizes. She saw him sitting attentively in mission school classes as the priests taught him lessons beyond his natural years. Yet somehow, Araceli sensed something was awry with him. She wondered how this total stranger thirty years her senior–especially one that lived in a campesino’s hut with a dirt floor more than 2,000 miles away–could possibly impact her future. She nodded.
“You need to find out about this boy, because his life affects yours.”
“How?”
“You need to keep writing to find out.”
“But why?” asked Araceli. She turned around, but the bird was gone.
Friday, June 25
LA MORENITA, Chapter 28
Four days later, they entered Washington state. As they crossed over the bridge that connected Oregon and Washington, he spoke. “Look at the Mighty Columbia River, will you? We’re within striking distance now. Richland can’t be more than thirty or forty miles from here.”
M couldn’t put into words what she was feeling, but she knew it was wrapped in a sense of irony. The wide expanse of white-capped waters rushing below them, the sky as blue as robin’s eggs and white clouds as thick and puffy as marshmallows, and the cheery “Welcome to Washington” sign at the halfway point on the bridge all seemed as pleasant as a Walt Disney cartoon. So why was she filled with such a sense of gloom?
They reached Uncle Joe’s house on Stevens Boulevard at about three that afternoon. Aunt Eunice must have been looking for them because she came out immediately to greet them. Grinning, Eunice approached the car on the passenger side, but she and her smile both froze as she saw M sitting there.
As M looked back at Eunice she noted how cold the woman looked when she stopped smiling. Tall and slender, with her hair pulled back in a bun, the woman had a thin, straight line for a mouth and eyes the color of translucent cough drops.
As N exited the car on the driver’s side, Eunice came around and hugged him. “We were all so worried,” she crooned. “We weren’t sure when you left, and then, of course there was all that news about that awful tornado.”
“Tornado?” M repeated. “What tornado?”
“Oh, you know,” Eunice said. “The one that hit around San Antonio. It destroyed a bunch of homes and killed some people.”
“Can I use your phone to make a long distance call?” M asked.
“Why sure. I’ll show you where it is.”
She got out of the car and rushed up the steps behind Eunice. When Eunice opened the door, M almost beat her inside. Eunice pointed toward the phone, but before she could speak, Maria had snatched the phone off the cradle and was dialing. She let it ring thirteen times. No answer.
She replaced the phone on the cradle and immediately snatched it up again. The phone rang seven times before M’s oldest sister, answered.
“Bueno.”
“This is Maria. I called Mom and Dad’s but no one answered.”
“Ay de mi! They’re dead, Maria. They were killed in the tornado.”
“Dios mio!” Maria sobbed, crossing herself. “I knew something was wrong!”
“But you left anyway, didn’t you? To be with your gringo husband.”
“Please, have pity on me!”
“I told you something would happen if you went away. The funeral’s tomorrow.”
“Oh, no! It can’t be tomorrow! I can’t make it by then.”
“What does it matter to you? You’re no longer a member of this family anyway.”
Consuela hung up.
#
Araceli closed the notebook, lay it on the stand next to her bed, turned off the light and went to sleep. The next thing she remembered was walking down to the riverside path to wait for the raven. She was pretty sure it wasn’t a dream because she could smell the fresh river water and the wet black dirt on the bank of the river. She sat down on the bench and listened to the soft sounds of the river passing by. She waited fifteen minutes, taking note of the fact that no one else could be seen at the riverside path or anywhere else within her view. Then the raven flew in and landed on the back of her bench. “All finished,” Araceli announced in a weary voice.
“Read it to me,” the raven ordered.
Araceli obliged the raven by reading the remaining pages aloud.
“Is that all true?” the raven asked.
“Yes. I believe it is.”
The raven spread her wings.
“Wait a minute. Where are you going?”
“Now that you’ve finished writing the story of your parents’ lives, you don’t need me any more.”
“But what if I do need you? How do I let you know?”
“I’ll know. And I’ll come you as I came to you this time. In your dream.”
“This is a dream?”
“Of course it is. And to you, it is probably the greater reality.”
“And you will come to me if I need you?”
“If you need help, the right person will be there for you.”
“But not you?”
“I came to show you your gift” said the raven. “You have that gift now. If you need further help, you will receive it.”
“But what do I do in the meantime?”
“Just boldly follow your passion. If you need help, someone will visit you.”
Araceli watched the raven fly up into the air. She followed the raven even after it was only a dot in the sky. When she could no longer see the raven, she got up and went home. This can’t be a dream, she thought. It’s too real.
M couldn’t put into words what she was feeling, but she knew it was wrapped in a sense of irony. The wide expanse of white-capped waters rushing below them, the sky as blue as robin’s eggs and white clouds as thick and puffy as marshmallows, and the cheery “Welcome to Washington” sign at the halfway point on the bridge all seemed as pleasant as a Walt Disney cartoon. So why was she filled with such a sense of gloom?
They reached Uncle Joe’s house on Stevens Boulevard at about three that afternoon. Aunt Eunice must have been looking for them because she came out immediately to greet them. Grinning, Eunice approached the car on the passenger side, but she and her smile both froze as she saw M sitting there.
As M looked back at Eunice she noted how cold the woman looked when she stopped smiling. Tall and slender, with her hair pulled back in a bun, the woman had a thin, straight line for a mouth and eyes the color of translucent cough drops.
As N exited the car on the driver’s side, Eunice came around and hugged him. “We were all so worried,” she crooned. “We weren’t sure when you left, and then, of course there was all that news about that awful tornado.”
“Tornado?” M repeated. “What tornado?”
“Oh, you know,” Eunice said. “The one that hit around San Antonio. It destroyed a bunch of homes and killed some people.”
“Can I use your phone to make a long distance call?” M asked.
“Why sure. I’ll show you where it is.”
She got out of the car and rushed up the steps behind Eunice. When Eunice opened the door, M almost beat her inside. Eunice pointed toward the phone, but before she could speak, Maria had snatched the phone off the cradle and was dialing. She let it ring thirteen times. No answer.
She replaced the phone on the cradle and immediately snatched it up again. The phone rang seven times before M’s oldest sister, answered.
“Bueno.”
“This is Maria. I called Mom and Dad’s but no one answered.”
“Ay de mi! They’re dead, Maria. They were killed in the tornado.”
“Dios mio!” Maria sobbed, crossing herself. “I knew something was wrong!”
“But you left anyway, didn’t you? To be with your gringo husband.”
“Please, have pity on me!”
“I told you something would happen if you went away. The funeral’s tomorrow.”
“Oh, no! It can’t be tomorrow! I can’t make it by then.”
“What does it matter to you? You’re no longer a member of this family anyway.”
Consuela hung up.
#
Araceli closed the notebook, lay it on the stand next to her bed, turned off the light and went to sleep. The next thing she remembered was walking down to the riverside path to wait for the raven. She was pretty sure it wasn’t a dream because she could smell the fresh river water and the wet black dirt on the bank of the river. She sat down on the bench and listened to the soft sounds of the river passing by. She waited fifteen minutes, taking note of the fact that no one else could be seen at the riverside path or anywhere else within her view. Then the raven flew in and landed on the back of her bench. “All finished,” Araceli announced in a weary voice.
“Read it to me,” the raven ordered.
Araceli obliged the raven by reading the remaining pages aloud.
“Is that all true?” the raven asked.
“Yes. I believe it is.”
The raven spread her wings.
“Wait a minute. Where are you going?”
“Now that you’ve finished writing the story of your parents’ lives, you don’t need me any more.”
“But what if I do need you? How do I let you know?”
“I’ll know. And I’ll come you as I came to you this time. In your dream.”
“This is a dream?”
“Of course it is. And to you, it is probably the greater reality.”
“And you will come to me if I need you?”
“If you need help, the right person will be there for you.”
“But not you?”
“I came to show you your gift” said the raven. “You have that gift now. If you need further help, you will receive it.”
“But what do I do in the meantime?”
“Just boldly follow your passion. If you need help, someone will visit you.”
Araceli watched the raven fly up into the air. She followed the raven even after it was only a dot in the sky. When she could no longer see the raven, she got up and went home. This can’t be a dream, she thought. It’s too real.
LA MORENITA, Chapter 27
They began the trip from San Antonio to Richland in Norm’s Impala, towing all their worldly possessions in a small rental trailer. On the day they left, they pulled out of San Antonio at five A.M., N driving the maximum the speed limit allowed by law. They took Route 10, traveling past the rolling hills of the Guadalupe River Valley, Kerrville, and Mountain Home. From there, they passed Segovia, a small town with only a truck stop and a general store. Noticing how tense she seemed about leaving home, he remarked, “Take a good look at all the poverty, darlin’. This is the Texas we’re leaving behind.” She didn’t say a word even after they passed Roosevelt, Sonora, and Ozona. She still seemed dismayed as they drove past desert scrublands, rolling hills with clumps of cheat grass and cactus, through wide expanses of and open land sporting occasional patches of low bushes and wild bluebonnets. Seeing squirrels at play near the roadside and white-tailed deer grazing in the distance didn’t cheer her up. Even after
they passed Fort Lancaster, she still felt despondent. “Texas,” he said. “The good, bad, the ugly.”
“I’ll miss all of it,” she said.
Fumbling for a way to make her laugh, he switched on the radio and purposely found a Spanish speaking station. “Shit!” he grumped. She smiled. Rapidly, he negotiated through the frequencies carrying English speaking stations and landed on a station playing Mexican polkas.
“Dammit to Hell!” he exclaimed. He glanced over as she giggled softly. Next, he moved the dial until he stopped on a jingle they had heard before.
“I don’t care if it rains or freezes,” the voice on the radio sang, “as long as I got my plastic Jesus, sittin’ on the dashboard of my car. I don’t care if it’s dark and scary, as long as I got Magnetic Mary, sittin’ on the dashboard of my car!”
She reached over and turned the radio off.
“That’s what I’m going to miss about Texas,” he said. “All the things there are to make fun of.”
Near Tornillo, a town of about two hundred and fifty surrounded by cotton fields and pecan groves, he pulled onto the shoulder. “Look at that,” he said. “Texas is dying here. Everybody’s living in the past. That’s what all this cotton is. The past. Nobody picks cotton anymore but Coloreds and Mexicans. And we’re leaving all this behind and going to a place where the future is. Nothing but nuclear, I’m telling you. Nuclear plants. Nuclear medicine,—.”
“Nuclear waste,” she mumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I know you’ll miss your family,” he said.
“That’s only part of it,” she said.
“Don’t tell me you’re feeling Mexican again.”
“What you mean, again? It’s not something I can get away from. I feel Mexican every second of my life.”
“But you’re married to me,” he said. “And things are different now. How many times do I have to tell you, you aren’t any more Mexican than I’m German. We’re Americans, don’t you get it?”
“It’s easier for you to not be German than it is for me to not be Mexican,” she said.
“Look,” he replied. “I don’t even care about being American. I’ve learned from talking to guys who came back from Viet Nam that we’d all be better off if there weren’t any such thing as nations.”
“How do you figure?”
“If there were no nations, there’d be no national armies. If there were no national armies, then the big oil companies would have to hire their own goons to fight their battles, and nobody would have to die who didn’t volunteer for it. And all the rest of us could live free.”
“Is that what you think Viet Nam is? A war for Big Oil?”
“Yeah. Big Oil and Corporate America. Thousands of young American boys dying for Big Brother and the Holding Company.”
“So what’s that got to do with us?” she asked.
“Don’t you see?” he said. “They only thing that really counts is you and me. Nothing else matters.”
After passing El Paso, they headed north, through New Mexico. Just inside the New Mexico state border, new ghost towns emerged. Is this the future of New Mexico, too? she thought. After passing La Mesa, she wondered aloud, “Is the whole southwest turning into a ghost town?”
He didn’t answer.
“I don’t understand,” she continued, “I heard there’s new construction near Dallas and down in Houston. Why did we have to leave Texas?”
Again, he said nothing.
“Okay,” she said. “Why did you leave Texas?”
Still, he didn’t speak.
“Didn’t you hear my question?” she asked.
“I left,” he finally said, “to make a better life for you. Do you like the way you were being treated in Texas?”
“It was all right for me,” she said, “because I stayed with my own kind.” A few seconds later, she said, “Until I met you.”
“Okay,” he said. “I left Texas because I didn’t want to be near my family, and I didn’t want to live next to yours. Besides, I’ve got a great chance at some real opportunity up in Washington state.”
“You didn’t have any opportunity in Texas?”
“No,” he said. “Hell, no.” He didn’t want to tell her that he hadn’t been laid off. He’d been fired for fighting on the job.
they passed Fort Lancaster, she still felt despondent. “Texas,” he said. “The good, bad, the ugly.”
“I’ll miss all of it,” she said.
Fumbling for a way to make her laugh, he switched on the radio and purposely found a Spanish speaking station. “Shit!” he grumped. She smiled. Rapidly, he negotiated through the frequencies carrying English speaking stations and landed on a station playing Mexican polkas.
“Dammit to Hell!” he exclaimed. He glanced over as she giggled softly. Next, he moved the dial until he stopped on a jingle they had heard before.
“I don’t care if it rains or freezes,” the voice on the radio sang, “as long as I got my plastic Jesus, sittin’ on the dashboard of my car. I don’t care if it’s dark and scary, as long as I got Magnetic Mary, sittin’ on the dashboard of my car!”
She reached over and turned the radio off.
“That’s what I’m going to miss about Texas,” he said. “All the things there are to make fun of.”
Near Tornillo, a town of about two hundred and fifty surrounded by cotton fields and pecan groves, he pulled onto the shoulder. “Look at that,” he said. “Texas is dying here. Everybody’s living in the past. That’s what all this cotton is. The past. Nobody picks cotton anymore but Coloreds and Mexicans. And we’re leaving all this behind and going to a place where the future is. Nothing but nuclear, I’m telling you. Nuclear plants. Nuclear medicine,—.”
“Nuclear waste,” she mumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I know you’ll miss your family,” he said.
“That’s only part of it,” she said.
“Don’t tell me you’re feeling Mexican again.”
“What you mean, again? It’s not something I can get away from. I feel Mexican every second of my life.”
“But you’re married to me,” he said. “And things are different now. How many times do I have to tell you, you aren’t any more Mexican than I’m German. We’re Americans, don’t you get it?”
“It’s easier for you to not be German than it is for me to not be Mexican,” she said.
“Look,” he replied. “I don’t even care about being American. I’ve learned from talking to guys who came back from Viet Nam that we’d all be better off if there weren’t any such thing as nations.”
“How do you figure?”
“If there were no nations, there’d be no national armies. If there were no national armies, then the big oil companies would have to hire their own goons to fight their battles, and nobody would have to die who didn’t volunteer for it. And all the rest of us could live free.”
“Is that what you think Viet Nam is? A war for Big Oil?”
“Yeah. Big Oil and Corporate America. Thousands of young American boys dying for Big Brother and the Holding Company.”
“So what’s that got to do with us?” she asked.
“Don’t you see?” he said. “They only thing that really counts is you and me. Nothing else matters.”
After passing El Paso, they headed north, through New Mexico. Just inside the New Mexico state border, new ghost towns emerged. Is this the future of New Mexico, too? she thought. After passing La Mesa, she wondered aloud, “Is the whole southwest turning into a ghost town?”
He didn’t answer.
“I don’t understand,” she continued, “I heard there’s new construction near Dallas and down in Houston. Why did we have to leave Texas?”
Again, he said nothing.
“Okay,” she said. “Why did you leave Texas?”
Still, he didn’t speak.
“Didn’t you hear my question?” she asked.
“I left,” he finally said, “to make a better life for you. Do you like the way you were being treated in Texas?”
“It was all right for me,” she said, “because I stayed with my own kind.” A few seconds later, she said, “Until I met you.”
“Okay,” he said. “I left Texas because I didn’t want to be near my family, and I didn’t want to live next to yours. Besides, I’ve got a great chance at some real opportunity up in Washington state.”
“You didn’t have any opportunity in Texas?”
“No,” he said. “Hell, no.” He didn’t want to tell her that he hadn’t been laid off. He’d been fired for fighting on the job.
Thursday, June 24
LA MORENITA, Chapter 26
During the next few weeks they fought over food, over music and even over the stray Mexican phrases that slipped out of M’s mouth from time to time. Then just before a payday, M received a recipe from N’s mother in the mail. She wanted to surprise N with his favorite meal. Unfortunately, he didn’t come home that night until well after ten o’clock. When he came through the door, it was obvious he was drunk. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “I fixed your favorite meal!”
“Oh, no!” he jeered. “Not enchiladas again?”
“Think again, smart guy,” she said. “I fixed Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes, gravy and fresh green beans. With apple pie a’ la mode for dessert.”
He looked at her through sullen, half-closed eyes. “Dammit! Just leave me the hell alone! Okay?” He went into the bedroom and, without taking off his dirty work clothes, flopped backwards onto the bed. Within minutes, he was snoring.
She stayed up a while, fuming and scraping the cold food from his plate into the garbage pail. Then she went into the bedroom and prodded him, trying to get him to slide him over in the bed.
Slowly, he stirred. Fixing her with a mean glare and pointing his finger, he growled, “Don’t you ever do that to me again!” Then he closed his eyes and went back to snoring, leaving her even less room than before.
She took a blanket from the closet and spent the night on the couch.
The next day, before he got up, she called her mother. “Mama, I’ve made a terrible mistake,” she said. “I’ve got to get out of this marriage.”
“Dios mio, m’ija!” her mother said. M imagined her mother crossing herself as she said it. “Marriage is forever in the eyes of God. If you make one mistake, don’t make two. He is a nice boy and a good provider. Better than any of the Mexican boys you brought home. Figure out what you are doing wrong and change it.”
An hour later, he still had not gotten up. She went in to prod him awake. After what seemed like an eternity, he woke. “Whaa–what in the hell are you doing?” he moaned.
“You’ve got to get up,” she said. “You’ll be late for work.”
“No, I don’t. I got laid off yesterday.”
“Oh, sweetheart! Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shook his head, then held it tightly in his hands.
“That must be a heck of a hangover you got there.”
He nodded.
“What can I do to help?”
He shrugged.
“I can get a job.”
“No!” he shrieked. His anger brought him up out of the bed and onto his feet. “How will that make me look? Like I’m so lame I have to have my wife support me?”
“But it’ll only be for a short time until you start working again. I can always go back to El Rincón. All my old customers will be glad to see me. I’ll get big tips.”
“No!” he said. “I want you to stay away from those people.”
The hairs on the back of her neck bristled. “I just want to help,” she said. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
“You know what I want you to do?” he shouted. “I want you to shut up!” With one arm, he shoved her to the floor. He stormed out of the bedroom, then out of the house.
During the next few months, they fought mostly over money. At first, he paid the bills with money he made from the small home repair jobs he was able to scrounge. When these jobs dried up, he searched vainly for jobs during the day, and drank heavily with his buddies at night, most of the time drinking until sunrise and sleeping the next day through most of the morning and part of the afternoon. One night he did manage to make it home before daybreak, and when his crawling into bed jostled her awake, the two of them argued so bitterly that they completely stopped talking to each other.
Three days after their bitter argument, he came back to the house in the early afternoon, acting like the man she’d fallen in love with. “Hi, sweetie,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “We gotta get packing. I just talked to my uncle. He’s got a job lined up for me.”
“A job?” she asked. “A real job? Where is it?”
“Richland, Washington” he said. “At the nuclear reservation. He says if I can get there in less than two weeks, it’s guaranteed good money and lots of job security.”
“But I don’t know anybody in Washington state.”
“You will after I introduce you to my uncle. Besides, it’ll give us a fresh start. Things shouldn’t be as hard on us up there.”
“What do you mean? What things? What shouldn’t be as hard on us?”
“You know. Our marriage. Your being Mexican.”
“I’ve never been outside of Texas. I don’t know if I want to leave.”
“Things can’t possibly be as bad as they are here right now.”
“But this a big step. Can’t we just think about it?”
“Look, M. Here’s our choice. We go to Washington state, where I can get paid top dollar, or we stay here where we’re both starving. What do you think we should do?”
She shrugged and shook her head.
“Good,” he said. “Then it’s settled.”
When she announced to her parents that she and N were moving to Washington state, her father took the news stoically. Her mother beamed and said what was prophesied in her dreams and the tarot cards was coming true. Her sisters exploded. “Bad enough you had to marry the damn gringo,” her oldest sister said. “Now you’re going to move far away from the rest of your family.”
“What else can I do?” M argued. “He’s my husband.”
“That’s easily fixed.”
“Don’t you know that family is more important than any gringo husband?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Our parents. They’re not in good health, and they may need you during this time. The family may need you.”
M stared blankly at her sister. She didn’t want to leave her family. She would miss them all. In fact, she was overwhelmed by thoughts of leaving Texas. But her duty was clear. M didn’t sleep much that night, but she woke with a resolve. She got out a road atlas and began tracing the route from San Antonio across Texas and then up through New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, Utah, Idaho, and Oregon all the way to Richland. When N got home, she showed it to him. “Look at this route,” she said. “A little over twenty-four hundred miles. I’m guessing we can make it in about thirty-six hours.”
N shook his head. “There’s got to be a better way than going through those God-forsaken stretches of Texas highway.”
“No, there isn’t,” she insisted. “This is the best way.”
He took the atlas and lay it on the kitchen table. After considering the possibilities, he traced out a route up through Northern Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Colorado, and Wyoming before heading northwest, going through Idaho and Oregon, then into Washington state.
“Why do you want to go through Kansas?” she asked. “It’s flat as a pancake.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But if takes going through Kansas to get out of Texas, I’m all for it.”
She fed him cheeseburgers, fries and coleslaw. Afterwards, he took a shower. While he showered, she traced his route, carefully marking the mileage on each leg of the journey. “When he got out of the shower, she said, “Come here. Look at this.”
“Look at what?” he said, peering over her shoulder.
“The two routes,” she said. “Yours is a little over twenty-two hundred miles. Only two hundred miles less than my route. The way I’ve got it figured, that should take about thirty-three hours.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” he said as he pushed her aside and sat down.
“Measure it out yourself,” she said as she got up.
Forty minutes later he turned to her. “Two hundred miles is two hundred miles,” he said. “And look at that big chunk of Texas we’ll be avoiding.”
“Yes, but in Texas, that’s all open highway,” she said, pointing at the map. “Not like all those junctions we have to pass going up through Oklahoma and Kansas.”
“Aw, come on,” he countered. “Kansas is just as wide open as Texas.”
“You ever been there?”
“No, but look at the map.”
“It’s all the same,” she said. “Boring. It may be shorter, but it’ll seem longer when we drive through it.”
“Name me one reason why we should waste the extra gas and go the long way through Texas.”
“Because I’ll feel better about leaving if we go my way.”
He looked at the map and at her figures on paper next to it. He looked up at her and scowled. “Okay,” he finally said.
“Oh, no!” he jeered. “Not enchiladas again?”
“Think again, smart guy,” she said. “I fixed Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes, gravy and fresh green beans. With apple pie a’ la mode for dessert.”
He looked at her through sullen, half-closed eyes. “Dammit! Just leave me the hell alone! Okay?” He went into the bedroom and, without taking off his dirty work clothes, flopped backwards onto the bed. Within minutes, he was snoring.
She stayed up a while, fuming and scraping the cold food from his plate into the garbage pail. Then she went into the bedroom and prodded him, trying to get him to slide him over in the bed.
Slowly, he stirred. Fixing her with a mean glare and pointing his finger, he growled, “Don’t you ever do that to me again!” Then he closed his eyes and went back to snoring, leaving her even less room than before.
She took a blanket from the closet and spent the night on the couch.
The next day, before he got up, she called her mother. “Mama, I’ve made a terrible mistake,” she said. “I’ve got to get out of this marriage.”
“Dios mio, m’ija!” her mother said. M imagined her mother crossing herself as she said it. “Marriage is forever in the eyes of God. If you make one mistake, don’t make two. He is a nice boy and a good provider. Better than any of the Mexican boys you brought home. Figure out what you are doing wrong and change it.”
An hour later, he still had not gotten up. She went in to prod him awake. After what seemed like an eternity, he woke. “Whaa–what in the hell are you doing?” he moaned.
“You’ve got to get up,” she said. “You’ll be late for work.”
“No, I don’t. I got laid off yesterday.”
“Oh, sweetheart! Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shook his head, then held it tightly in his hands.
“That must be a heck of a hangover you got there.”
He nodded.
“What can I do to help?”
He shrugged.
“I can get a job.”
“No!” he shrieked. His anger brought him up out of the bed and onto his feet. “How will that make me look? Like I’m so lame I have to have my wife support me?”
“But it’ll only be for a short time until you start working again. I can always go back to El Rincón. All my old customers will be glad to see me. I’ll get big tips.”
“No!” he said. “I want you to stay away from those people.”
The hairs on the back of her neck bristled. “I just want to help,” she said. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
“You know what I want you to do?” he shouted. “I want you to shut up!” With one arm, he shoved her to the floor. He stormed out of the bedroom, then out of the house.
During the next few months, they fought mostly over money. At first, he paid the bills with money he made from the small home repair jobs he was able to scrounge. When these jobs dried up, he searched vainly for jobs during the day, and drank heavily with his buddies at night, most of the time drinking until sunrise and sleeping the next day through most of the morning and part of the afternoon. One night he did manage to make it home before daybreak, and when his crawling into bed jostled her awake, the two of them argued so bitterly that they completely stopped talking to each other.
Three days after their bitter argument, he came back to the house in the early afternoon, acting like the man she’d fallen in love with. “Hi, sweetie,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “We gotta get packing. I just talked to my uncle. He’s got a job lined up for me.”
“A job?” she asked. “A real job? Where is it?”
“Richland, Washington” he said. “At the nuclear reservation. He says if I can get there in less than two weeks, it’s guaranteed good money and lots of job security.”
“But I don’t know anybody in Washington state.”
“You will after I introduce you to my uncle. Besides, it’ll give us a fresh start. Things shouldn’t be as hard on us up there.”
“What do you mean? What things? What shouldn’t be as hard on us?”
“You know. Our marriage. Your being Mexican.”
“I’ve never been outside of Texas. I don’t know if I want to leave.”
“Things can’t possibly be as bad as they are here right now.”
“But this a big step. Can’t we just think about it?”
“Look, M. Here’s our choice. We go to Washington state, where I can get paid top dollar, or we stay here where we’re both starving. What do you think we should do?”
She shrugged and shook her head.
“Good,” he said. “Then it’s settled.”
When she announced to her parents that she and N were moving to Washington state, her father took the news stoically. Her mother beamed and said what was prophesied in her dreams and the tarot cards was coming true. Her sisters exploded. “Bad enough you had to marry the damn gringo,” her oldest sister said. “Now you’re going to move far away from the rest of your family.”
“What else can I do?” M argued. “He’s my husband.”
“That’s easily fixed.”
“Don’t you know that family is more important than any gringo husband?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Our parents. They’re not in good health, and they may need you during this time. The family may need you.”
M stared blankly at her sister. She didn’t want to leave her family. She would miss them all. In fact, she was overwhelmed by thoughts of leaving Texas. But her duty was clear. M didn’t sleep much that night, but she woke with a resolve. She got out a road atlas and began tracing the route from San Antonio across Texas and then up through New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, Utah, Idaho, and Oregon all the way to Richland. When N got home, she showed it to him. “Look at this route,” she said. “A little over twenty-four hundred miles. I’m guessing we can make it in about thirty-six hours.”
N shook his head. “There’s got to be a better way than going through those God-forsaken stretches of Texas highway.”
“No, there isn’t,” she insisted. “This is the best way.”
He took the atlas and lay it on the kitchen table. After considering the possibilities, he traced out a route up through Northern Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Colorado, and Wyoming before heading northwest, going through Idaho and Oregon, then into Washington state.
“Why do you want to go through Kansas?” she asked. “It’s flat as a pancake.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But if takes going through Kansas to get out of Texas, I’m all for it.”
She fed him cheeseburgers, fries and coleslaw. Afterwards, he took a shower. While he showered, she traced his route, carefully marking the mileage on each leg of the journey. “When he got out of the shower, she said, “Come here. Look at this.”
“Look at what?” he said, peering over her shoulder.
“The two routes,” she said. “Yours is a little over twenty-two hundred miles. Only two hundred miles less than my route. The way I’ve got it figured, that should take about thirty-three hours.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” he said as he pushed her aside and sat down.
“Measure it out yourself,” she said as she got up.
Forty minutes later he turned to her. “Two hundred miles is two hundred miles,” he said. “And look at that big chunk of Texas we’ll be avoiding.”
“Yes, but in Texas, that’s all open highway,” she said, pointing at the map. “Not like all those junctions we have to pass going up through Oklahoma and Kansas.”
“Aw, come on,” he countered. “Kansas is just as wide open as Texas.”
“You ever been there?”
“No, but look at the map.”
“It’s all the same,” she said. “Boring. It may be shorter, but it’ll seem longer when we drive through it.”
“Name me one reason why we should waste the extra gas and go the long way through Texas.”
“Because I’ll feel better about leaving if we go my way.”
He looked at the map and at her figures on paper next to it. He looked up at her and scowled. “Okay,” he finally said.
LA MORENITA, Chapter 25
While N took no days off from work, the days immediately following the wedding felt like a honeymoon. For three weeks afterwards, he turned down all overtime and came directly home, while M had dinner waiting for him. Just before dinner, they would sit together in the living room, listening to Hank Williams, Marty Robbins, or some other country artist from N’s record collection. Occasionally, M would put on the only record she owned, which had Ranchera music on it.
After three weeks, N confessed to M that he didn’t like Ranchera music. M said this confused her, since Ranchera style music was a mix of traditional Mexican music and German polkas. N told her he couldn’t stand German polkas either.
On the Monday marking the start of their fourth week together, M and N had their first quarrel. N came home from work to a house filled with Mexican polkas. “Turn that shit off!” he demanded.
“I will not turn it off!” she snapped. “You turn it off.”
He obliged her.
“Okay,” she said. “What’s really bothering you?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I already told you I don’t like that shit.”
“Something happened at work?” she asked.
He glared at her.
“Want to talk about it?” she said.
He went into the bedroom and slammed the door.
The next night after work he bounded up the steps and through the front door. There, he found her sitting in front of the radio, listening to an unfamiliar kind of music. “What is that crap?” he asked.
“Give it a chance,” she said playfully. “If you do, I’m sure you’ll love it.”
“I’m sure I won’t,” he replied. “If it’s not country music, I don’t want to hear it.”
“It’s cumbia,” she declared. She got up and started dancing. “Hear that beat?” she said. “That’s supposed to be the rhythm made by the chains of African slaves as they dragged along the ground.”
N switched off the radio. He took both of her hands in his and sat on a foot stool. As he sat, he pushed her back into an easy chair. “Look,” he said. “I want you to understand something. I don’t want to hear any Mexican music. Or any African music either. And I don’t want you listening to it, either. If you have to listen to some music, play one of my albums.”
The next afternoon when N came home from work, M had Hank Williams cranked up to the highest level the record player would allow. N could hear Hank crooning his long gone, lonesome blues even before he got out of his car. He got out, slammed the door, ran up the steps, and bolted into the living room. Immediately, he went to the stereo and adjusted the volume to a
more moderate level.
M entered the living room. “What’s the problem?” she asked. “Don’t you like it?”
“I like it fine,” he said. “It was just too loud. What’s for supper?”
“I made some good old American grits,” she said.
He smiled. “Grits, huh? What else?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Just a big old bowl of hot, greasy grits.”
He frowned. “You can’t make a meal out of just grits.”
She folded her arms across her chest and scowled. “Why not? At least they’re not Mexican.”
He stood there in his dirty work clothes, staring back at her.
“Now, be a good boy and get changed for supper,” she said. “If you clean up real nice, I might make you some ham and eggs to go with those grits.”
She laughed.
He didn’t.
After three weeks, N confessed to M that he didn’t like Ranchera music. M said this confused her, since Ranchera style music was a mix of traditional Mexican music and German polkas. N told her he couldn’t stand German polkas either.
On the Monday marking the start of their fourth week together, M and N had their first quarrel. N came home from work to a house filled with Mexican polkas. “Turn that shit off!” he demanded.
“I will not turn it off!” she snapped. “You turn it off.”
He obliged her.
“Okay,” she said. “What’s really bothering you?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I already told you I don’t like that shit.”
“Something happened at work?” she asked.
He glared at her.
“Want to talk about it?” she said.
He went into the bedroom and slammed the door.
The next night after work he bounded up the steps and through the front door. There, he found her sitting in front of the radio, listening to an unfamiliar kind of music. “What is that crap?” he asked.
“Give it a chance,” she said playfully. “If you do, I’m sure you’ll love it.”
“I’m sure I won’t,” he replied. “If it’s not country music, I don’t want to hear it.”
“It’s cumbia,” she declared. She got up and started dancing. “Hear that beat?” she said. “That’s supposed to be the rhythm made by the chains of African slaves as they dragged along the ground.”
N switched off the radio. He took both of her hands in his and sat on a foot stool. As he sat, he pushed her back into an easy chair. “Look,” he said. “I want you to understand something. I don’t want to hear any Mexican music. Or any African music either. And I don’t want you listening to it, either. If you have to listen to some music, play one of my albums.”
The next afternoon when N came home from work, M had Hank Williams cranked up to the highest level the record player would allow. N could hear Hank crooning his long gone, lonesome blues even before he got out of his car. He got out, slammed the door, ran up the steps, and bolted into the living room. Immediately, he went to the stereo and adjusted the volume to a
more moderate level.
M entered the living room. “What’s the problem?” she asked. “Don’t you like it?”
“I like it fine,” he said. “It was just too loud. What’s for supper?”
“I made some good old American grits,” she said.
He smiled. “Grits, huh? What else?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Just a big old bowl of hot, greasy grits.”
He frowned. “You can’t make a meal out of just grits.”
She folded her arms across her chest and scowled. “Why not? At least they’re not Mexican.”
He stood there in his dirty work clothes, staring back at her.
“Now, be a good boy and get changed for supper,” she said. “If you clean up real nice, I might make you some ham and eggs to go with those grits.”
She laughed.
He didn’t.
LA MORENITA, Chapter 24
After N completed his Catholic instruction, he called his brother, J. “J,” he said. “Guess what? I’m a Catholic now, and I’m getting married.”
“Have you told Mom and Dad?”
“No, I haven’t told them. But they met my bride-to-be. Dad said to do what the hell I always do because I’m going to anyway.”
“So it’s the Mexican girl?”
“Yeah? So?”
“What the fuck’s wrong with you, man? That doesn’t make any goddam sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s your life gonna be like married to a Mexican? You can’t stand Mexican food or Mexican music. You don’t speak any Spanish. What the hell kind of life’s that gonna be?”
“Geez, J. Can’t you just be happy for me?”
“What did you expect me to say? I’m glad your gonna make more brown, Spanish-speaking babies because there aren’t enough already?”
“Fuck you, J! They’re not going to be brown. They’re gonna be white like me.”
“Who told you that shit?”
N slammed the phone down on the receiver. Later that day, he told M that they really needed to elope.
A week later, M and N went to a judge’s chambers. A grey-haired woman in a tan dress and sensible shoes met them in the court room and asked what their business was. “I’ve been told that Judge B is willing to perform weddings,” N said. “Is that true?”
“Yes, it is,” the receptionist said. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right back.”
The four of them sat down in the court room and waited.
After a few minutes, the receptionist returned with a sheet of paper. “Okay,” she said.
“Here’s a checklist. Every time you do one of these things, sign your initials to it. When it’s all filled in, you can come back here, or better yet, call the number at the top of the checklist and make an appointment. The judge is pretty busy right now and may not be able to get back to you
right away.”
N took the checklist. “What’s this item you’ve crossed off?”
“That’s where you’re supposed to be asked if you’re cousins or not,” the woman replied.
“You’re not, are you?”
N laughed.
N and M spent the afternoon getting the marriage license. When they were presented with the license, the clerk recommended a nearby laboratory where they could get the required blood work done. At the laboratory, they were told it would take two weeks to get the resultsback. N laid thirty dollars on the counter. “Oops,” he said. “I don’t know who dropped this.”
“Well,” said the man from the lab. He smiled as he scraped up the money. “Did I say two weeks? What was I thinking of?. We should be able to get the results for you early this afternoon.”
When the marriage checklist was completed, N called the judge’s phone number and made an appointment for four o’clock the next afternoon. The woman who answered said coffee would be free, but they would need to bring their own cake, if that’s what they wanted.
The next afternoon, N, M, and M’s parents showed up at the court room. M’s mother carried a round bakery cake with her. They were ushered into a small kitchen area, where coffee was brewing. M’s mother set the cake down and opened the pink cardboard box. The cake itself was half-white and half-chocolate with matching frosting.
The judge appeared in his robes. He was an old man, obviously not in good physical condition. His skin had a sallow coloring to it. He was so thin he was almost a wraith. He wore thick tri-focal glasses and had just a few strands of white hair growing out of the top of his wrinkled head. “We need to be quick about this,” the judge said. “I’ve got an appointment scheduled for thirty minutes from now. My receptionist says everything’s in order and the check’s been made out properly.” The receptionist positioned the bride and groom in front of the judge and motioned for M’s parents to sit at a nearby table.
“Marriage is a sacred trust,” the judge said. “I’m sure you know that. Or if not, you’ll find it out soon enough. So you need to remember that what God has joined together, let no man put asunder. But don’t ever forget that marriage is, first and foremost, about property. So if things don’t work out, I hope that both of you reach a fair and equitable settlement on the disposition of belongings and property. If you want to save money, you can by-pass the lawyers and come directly to me. Anybody else have anything else they want to say?”
As the judge paused, no one spoke.
“Now,” the judge continued. “Do you, N, take M to be your lawful wedded wife?”
“I do,” N said.
“And do you, M, take N to be your lawful wedded husband?”
“I do,” M said.
“Well, then,” the judge said. “By the authority invested in me by the great state of Texas, I now pronounce you man and wife. And I sure hope the two of you know what the hell you’re doing.”
“Is that it?” M’s father asked M’s mother in Spanish. “I expected music. Why was there no music?”
“You may kiss the bride,” the judge said.
As N and M kissed, the receptionist cut the cake and distributed pieces to all present.
“Best of luck to both you,” she said. “May your lives be filled with joy.” She didn’t smile, and she sounded like a recording when she said it.
“Have you told Mom and Dad?”
“No, I haven’t told them. But they met my bride-to-be. Dad said to do what the hell I always do because I’m going to anyway.”
“So it’s the Mexican girl?”
“Yeah? So?”
“What the fuck’s wrong with you, man? That doesn’t make any goddam sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s your life gonna be like married to a Mexican? You can’t stand Mexican food or Mexican music. You don’t speak any Spanish. What the hell kind of life’s that gonna be?”
“Geez, J. Can’t you just be happy for me?”
“What did you expect me to say? I’m glad your gonna make more brown, Spanish-speaking babies because there aren’t enough already?”
“Fuck you, J! They’re not going to be brown. They’re gonna be white like me.”
“Who told you that shit?”
N slammed the phone down on the receiver. Later that day, he told M that they really needed to elope.
A week later, M and N went to a judge’s chambers. A grey-haired woman in a tan dress and sensible shoes met them in the court room and asked what their business was. “I’ve been told that Judge B is willing to perform weddings,” N said. “Is that true?”
“Yes, it is,” the receptionist said. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right back.”
The four of them sat down in the court room and waited.
After a few minutes, the receptionist returned with a sheet of paper. “Okay,” she said.
“Here’s a checklist. Every time you do one of these things, sign your initials to it. When it’s all filled in, you can come back here, or better yet, call the number at the top of the checklist and make an appointment. The judge is pretty busy right now and may not be able to get back to you
right away.”
N took the checklist. “What’s this item you’ve crossed off?”
“That’s where you’re supposed to be asked if you’re cousins or not,” the woman replied.
“You’re not, are you?”
N laughed.
N and M spent the afternoon getting the marriage license. When they were presented with the license, the clerk recommended a nearby laboratory where they could get the required blood work done. At the laboratory, they were told it would take two weeks to get the resultsback. N laid thirty dollars on the counter. “Oops,” he said. “I don’t know who dropped this.”
“Well,” said the man from the lab. He smiled as he scraped up the money. “Did I say two weeks? What was I thinking of?. We should be able to get the results for you early this afternoon.”
When the marriage checklist was completed, N called the judge’s phone number and made an appointment for four o’clock the next afternoon. The woman who answered said coffee would be free, but they would need to bring their own cake, if that’s what they wanted.
The next afternoon, N, M, and M’s parents showed up at the court room. M’s mother carried a round bakery cake with her. They were ushered into a small kitchen area, where coffee was brewing. M’s mother set the cake down and opened the pink cardboard box. The cake itself was half-white and half-chocolate with matching frosting.
The judge appeared in his robes. He was an old man, obviously not in good physical condition. His skin had a sallow coloring to it. He was so thin he was almost a wraith. He wore thick tri-focal glasses and had just a few strands of white hair growing out of the top of his wrinkled head. “We need to be quick about this,” the judge said. “I’ve got an appointment scheduled for thirty minutes from now. My receptionist says everything’s in order and the check’s been made out properly.” The receptionist positioned the bride and groom in front of the judge and motioned for M’s parents to sit at a nearby table.
“Marriage is a sacred trust,” the judge said. “I’m sure you know that. Or if not, you’ll find it out soon enough. So you need to remember that what God has joined together, let no man put asunder. But don’t ever forget that marriage is, first and foremost, about property. So if things don’t work out, I hope that both of you reach a fair and equitable settlement on the disposition of belongings and property. If you want to save money, you can by-pass the lawyers and come directly to me. Anybody else have anything else they want to say?”
As the judge paused, no one spoke.
“Now,” the judge continued. “Do you, N, take M to be your lawful wedded wife?”
“I do,” N said.
“And do you, M, take N to be your lawful wedded husband?”
“I do,” M said.
“Well, then,” the judge said. “By the authority invested in me by the great state of Texas, I now pronounce you man and wife. And I sure hope the two of you know what the hell you’re doing.”
“Is that it?” M’s father asked M’s mother in Spanish. “I expected music. Why was there no music?”
“You may kiss the bride,” the judge said.
As N and M kissed, the receptionist cut the cake and distributed pieces to all present.
“Best of luck to both you,” she said. “May your lives be filled with joy.” She didn’t smile, and she sounded like a recording when she said it.
Wednesday, June 23
LA MORENITA, Chapter 23
N parked his red Impala by the curb while Father F stood on the sidewalk in front of the church, talking with parishioners after Sunday Mass. N and M got out of the Chevy and walked up the sidewalk to greet him just as he was turning to go back inside.
“Father,” M said. “I want you to meet N. He wants to become a Catholic.”
“I see,” said the priest. “Does he have a sponsor?”
“I’m his sponsor,” Maria replied.
Father F wrinkled his nose, as if something in M’s declaration had a disagreeable smell. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small notepad, and scribbled something on the first page. He tore off the page and handed it to N. “Go to this parish, my son, and ask for Father C.”
“But Father,” M said. “I thought you would give him the instruction.”
“Normally I would,” Father F agreed. “But in these circumstances, I think your young man here needs to talk to Father C.”
N drove to the parish address Father F had written on the note pad. He entered the church cautiously, shielding his face from the sunlight that cascaded down through the high windows, painting the stark white walls with bright colors. The dark wooden trim and scenes from Christ’s life depicted in the stained glass windows made the church feel oppressive. It was as if the omniscient sanctuary knew that N was perpetrating a fraud.
It took N a while to find the office. He had to stop twice and ask kneeling parishioners where it was located. Eventually, he found the door and knocked. “Come in,” called a deep voice. N opened the door. “Yes, my son. May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Father C,” N said. “Father F sent me”
A priest with a long, pale face stood up and took a few steps. Tall and lean, he looked quite fit for a man his age. He had a great shock of white hair on the top of his head, and one of his legs was shorter than the other, causing him to walk with a slight limp. “I’m Father C,” he said as he reached out and shook N’s hand. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to become a Catholic,” N said.
“Is your name N?”
N nodded.
“Yes, Father F told me about you.” Father C turned and sat back down. He gestured toward a straight-backed chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
N sat. For the longest time, he and the priest stared at each other. Then the priest said, “So you’ve met a cute little Mexican girl, and you think you want to become a Catholic.”
“You sound like my Father,” N said.
“I am your father,” the priest said. “Your Father in Christ.” Again, they stared at each other. After a while, the priest spoke. “So, my son, what makes you think you want to be Catholic other than wanting to be with this cute little girl?”
N squirmed in his chair. The hoax would be hard enough to perpetrate without all these questions. “Can’t we just cut to the chase?” he asked.
“This is the chase,” the priest said. “Answer my question.”
N tried to stare the priest down, but the man’s grey-green eyes never strayed from N’s. After giving up the stare, N said, “My mother used to take me to the Baptist church when I was younger. All I ever heard there was what a big sinner I was.”
“You think that’s not true?”
“No, I know it’s true. But that’s part of my problem. They wanted me to make this decision for Christ and then go off and sin no more. But it didn’t work like that. I came forward one Sunday and prayed with the minister, and I felt real good about it. But I kept right on sinning, and a week later, I didn’t feel any better than when I first came forward.”
“And?”
“Well, I had some friends who were Catholics. And they kept sinning, too. But every week they got to go to church and confess. I think this was a better way to do it. To get it all off your chest and start fresh each week instead of saving up all your sins to the point where you feel like they’re crushing you.”
“And how do you think the priest takes away your sins?” the priest asked. “By giving you a few ‘Hail, Marys’ and an ‘Our Father’ or two?”
“I guess,” N said. “Something like that. I don’t know. I mean, the only time I got a fresh start in the Baptist church was at the beginning. But I kept wanting to be forgiven. I kept wanting to feel better about myself.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not saying it right.”
“No, you’re saying it fine. I understand you might actually be serious about your decision. Father F thought you were turning Catholic only because of this girl. That’s why he wanted me to discourage you.”
“Oh,” N said. He felt numb.
#
Later that week, N and M huddled together in the front seat of his Impala as M asked him questions. “What is God?”
“God is God. What else can He be? What can I say?”
M shook her head. “God is a spirit infinitely perfect.”
N shook his head and sighed.
“Does God have a beginning?”
“No. No beginning.”
“Where is God?”
“Everywhere.”
“Then why don’t we see Him?”
“We don’t see God because– He is a pure spirit– and cannot be seen with–, cannot be seen with– .”
“Bodily eyes. Cannot be seen with bodily eyes.”
N shook his head in frustration. “I’m never going to get this. I can’t believe it’s going to take six months just to change religions.”
“Does that mean you’re giving up?”
N’s face turned red. Not only did he hear the question, he also imagined hearing his father: “When the novelty wears off, you quit. You always quit.”
“No,” he said. “Let’s start again.”
She took a deep breath. “What is God?”
“God is– , God is– .”
“God is a–.”
“No, don’t tell me.” He reflected a moment. “God is a spirit.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “There’s more.”
“A spirit–,” He paused. Another word came to him. “A spirit infinitely—something.”
“Should I tell you?”
“Perfect. God is a spirit infinitely perfect.”
“Yes.”
“God has no beginning. He is everywhere.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I can do this.”
The next day, N went to his first confession. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”
“It’s never been, Father. This is my first confession ever.”
“I see. Go ahead.”
“I’ve sinned so much I don’t know where to start. “So much anger in me. So much lust.”
“I’m an old man, my son. I’m not as fascinated by sin as I used to be. Just hit the highlights.”
“When I was in the fourth grade, I punched a kid in the nose as hard as I could just because I wanted to see him bleed.”
“Hmm. Are you sorry about that?”
“Yes I am, Father. And when I was sixteen, I forced this girl to have sex with me. And when she stopped moving underneath me, I hit her with my fist.”
The priest didn’t say anything for a while. Then he said, “How do you feel about that?”
“I feel ashamed, Father. I can’t believe I did that.”
“Were you drinking at the time?”
“Yes, Father. I was drunk.”
“Well, clearly, you need to perform an act of contrition.”
“Tell me how, Father. I’ll do it.”
That Sunday, at fifteen minutes to eight, N met M and her family outside the church.
“Are you going to sit with the family?” she asked.
The thought made him uncomfortable. He looked at the dark eyes which protruded from the homely faces of her sisters and the leathery faces of her parents. If there’s such a thing as Mexican Claustrophobia, he thought, I’m going through it now. “Can we sit by ourselves?”
“Sure.” N took her hand and walked slowly into the church. “Where do you want to sit?” she asked.
“There,” he said, pointing to space next to the aisle in the last pew.
She walked to the edge of the pew, genuflected at the end of the row, and made the Sign of the Cross. Then she got up, entered the pews and sat down. He followed her and plunkedhimself down beside her.
“Why didn’t you kneel?”
“I didn’t know if I was supposed to,” he lied. In truth, he didn’t like kneeling. He didn’t like the pain it caused in his right knee, which had been injured twice in football, and he didn’t like the constricted feeling in his heart, as if the mere act of genuflecting was somehow attacking
the very core of his personality.
“Go ahead,” she said. “It’ll be good practice for you.”
N stood up and moved out to the end of the row. Quickly, he genuflected and crossed himself, touching his forehead, his chest, his right shoulder, then his left shoulder. M got up andknelt beside him. “When you make the Sign of the Cross,” she whispered, “you go from left to right, not from right to left.” She demonstrated. Nodding, he copied her movements. They both
got up and sat down in the pew. As he sat there, he yearned for the simplicity of a Baptist worship service.
“Father,” M said. “I want you to meet N. He wants to become a Catholic.”
“I see,” said the priest. “Does he have a sponsor?”
“I’m his sponsor,” Maria replied.
Father F wrinkled his nose, as if something in M’s declaration had a disagreeable smell. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small notepad, and scribbled something on the first page. He tore off the page and handed it to N. “Go to this parish, my son, and ask for Father C.”
“But Father,” M said. “I thought you would give him the instruction.”
“Normally I would,” Father F agreed. “But in these circumstances, I think your young man here needs to talk to Father C.”
N drove to the parish address Father F had written on the note pad. He entered the church cautiously, shielding his face from the sunlight that cascaded down through the high windows, painting the stark white walls with bright colors. The dark wooden trim and scenes from Christ’s life depicted in the stained glass windows made the church feel oppressive. It was as if the omniscient sanctuary knew that N was perpetrating a fraud.
It took N a while to find the office. He had to stop twice and ask kneeling parishioners where it was located. Eventually, he found the door and knocked. “Come in,” called a deep voice. N opened the door. “Yes, my son. May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Father C,” N said. “Father F sent me”
A priest with a long, pale face stood up and took a few steps. Tall and lean, he looked quite fit for a man his age. He had a great shock of white hair on the top of his head, and one of his legs was shorter than the other, causing him to walk with a slight limp. “I’m Father C,” he said as he reached out and shook N’s hand. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to become a Catholic,” N said.
“Is your name N?”
N nodded.
“Yes, Father F told me about you.” Father C turned and sat back down. He gestured toward a straight-backed chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
N sat. For the longest time, he and the priest stared at each other. Then the priest said, “So you’ve met a cute little Mexican girl, and you think you want to become a Catholic.”
“You sound like my Father,” N said.
“I am your father,” the priest said. “Your Father in Christ.” Again, they stared at each other. After a while, the priest spoke. “So, my son, what makes you think you want to be Catholic other than wanting to be with this cute little girl?”
N squirmed in his chair. The hoax would be hard enough to perpetrate without all these questions. “Can’t we just cut to the chase?” he asked.
“This is the chase,” the priest said. “Answer my question.”
N tried to stare the priest down, but the man’s grey-green eyes never strayed from N’s. After giving up the stare, N said, “My mother used to take me to the Baptist church when I was younger. All I ever heard there was what a big sinner I was.”
“You think that’s not true?”
“No, I know it’s true. But that’s part of my problem. They wanted me to make this decision for Christ and then go off and sin no more. But it didn’t work like that. I came forward one Sunday and prayed with the minister, and I felt real good about it. But I kept right on sinning, and a week later, I didn’t feel any better than when I first came forward.”
“And?”
“Well, I had some friends who were Catholics. And they kept sinning, too. But every week they got to go to church and confess. I think this was a better way to do it. To get it all off your chest and start fresh each week instead of saving up all your sins to the point where you feel like they’re crushing you.”
“And how do you think the priest takes away your sins?” the priest asked. “By giving you a few ‘Hail, Marys’ and an ‘Our Father’ or two?”
“I guess,” N said. “Something like that. I don’t know. I mean, the only time I got a fresh start in the Baptist church was at the beginning. But I kept wanting to be forgiven. I kept wanting to feel better about myself.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not saying it right.”
“No, you’re saying it fine. I understand you might actually be serious about your decision. Father F thought you were turning Catholic only because of this girl. That’s why he wanted me to discourage you.”
“Oh,” N said. He felt numb.
#
Later that week, N and M huddled together in the front seat of his Impala as M asked him questions. “What is God?”
“God is God. What else can He be? What can I say?”
M shook her head. “God is a spirit infinitely perfect.”
N shook his head and sighed.
“Does God have a beginning?”
“No. No beginning.”
“Where is God?”
“Everywhere.”
“Then why don’t we see Him?”
“We don’t see God because– He is a pure spirit– and cannot be seen with–, cannot be seen with– .”
“Bodily eyes. Cannot be seen with bodily eyes.”
N shook his head in frustration. “I’m never going to get this. I can’t believe it’s going to take six months just to change religions.”
“Does that mean you’re giving up?”
N’s face turned red. Not only did he hear the question, he also imagined hearing his father: “When the novelty wears off, you quit. You always quit.”
“No,” he said. “Let’s start again.”
She took a deep breath. “What is God?”
“God is– , God is– .”
“God is a–.”
“No, don’t tell me.” He reflected a moment. “God is a spirit.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “There’s more.”
“A spirit–,” He paused. Another word came to him. “A spirit infinitely—something.”
“Should I tell you?”
“Perfect. God is a spirit infinitely perfect.”
“Yes.”
“God has no beginning. He is everywhere.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I can do this.”
The next day, N went to his first confession. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”
“It’s never been, Father. This is my first confession ever.”
“I see. Go ahead.”
“I’ve sinned so much I don’t know where to start. “So much anger in me. So much lust.”
“I’m an old man, my son. I’m not as fascinated by sin as I used to be. Just hit the highlights.”
“When I was in the fourth grade, I punched a kid in the nose as hard as I could just because I wanted to see him bleed.”
“Hmm. Are you sorry about that?”
“Yes I am, Father. And when I was sixteen, I forced this girl to have sex with me. And when she stopped moving underneath me, I hit her with my fist.”
The priest didn’t say anything for a while. Then he said, “How do you feel about that?”
“I feel ashamed, Father. I can’t believe I did that.”
“Were you drinking at the time?”
“Yes, Father. I was drunk.”
“Well, clearly, you need to perform an act of contrition.”
“Tell me how, Father. I’ll do it.”
That Sunday, at fifteen minutes to eight, N met M and her family outside the church.
“Are you going to sit with the family?” she asked.
The thought made him uncomfortable. He looked at the dark eyes which protruded from the homely faces of her sisters and the leathery faces of her parents. If there’s such a thing as Mexican Claustrophobia, he thought, I’m going through it now. “Can we sit by ourselves?”
“Sure.” N took her hand and walked slowly into the church. “Where do you want to sit?” she asked.
“There,” he said, pointing to space next to the aisle in the last pew.
She walked to the edge of the pew, genuflected at the end of the row, and made the Sign of the Cross. Then she got up, entered the pews and sat down. He followed her and plunkedhimself down beside her.
“Why didn’t you kneel?”
“I didn’t know if I was supposed to,” he lied. In truth, he didn’t like kneeling. He didn’t like the pain it caused in his right knee, which had been injured twice in football, and he didn’t like the constricted feeling in his heart, as if the mere act of genuflecting was somehow attacking
the very core of his personality.
“Go ahead,” she said. “It’ll be good practice for you.”
N stood up and moved out to the end of the row. Quickly, he genuflected and crossed himself, touching his forehead, his chest, his right shoulder, then his left shoulder. M got up andknelt beside him. “When you make the Sign of the Cross,” she whispered, “you go from left to right, not from right to left.” She demonstrated. Nodding, he copied her movements. They both
got up and sat down in the pew. As he sat there, he yearned for the simplicity of a Baptist worship service.
LA MORENITA, Chapter 22
N parked his red Impala by the curb while Father F stood on the sidewalk in front of the church, talking with parishioners after Sunday Mass. N and M got out of the Chevy and walked up the sidewalk to greet him just as he was turning to go back inside.
“Father,” M said. “I want you to meet N. He wants to become a Catholic.”
“I see,” said the priest. “Does he have a sponsor?”
“I’m his sponsor,” Maria replied.
Father F wrinkled his nose, as if something in M’s declaration had a disagreeable smell. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small notepad, and scribbled something on the first page. He tore off the page and handed it to N. “Go to this parish, my son, and ask for Father C.”
“But Father,” M said. “I thought you would give him the instruction.”
“Normally I would,” Father F agreed. “But in these circumstances, I think your young man here needs to talk to Father C.”
N drove to the parish address Father F had written on the note pad. He entered the church cautiously, shielding his face from the sunlight that cascaded down through the high windows, painting the stark white walls with bright colors. The dark wooden trim and scenes from Christ’s life depicted in the stained glass windows made the church feel oppressive. It was as if the omniscient sanctuary knew that N was perpetrating a fraud.
It took N a while to find the office. He had to stop twice and ask kneeling parishioners where it was located. Eventually, he found the door and knocked. “Come in,” called a deep voice. N opened the door. “Yes, my son. May I help you?”
“ “I’m looking for Father C,” N said.. “Father F sent me”
A priest with a long, pale face stood up and took a few steps. Tall and lean, he looked quite fit for a man his age. He had a great shock of white hair on the top of his head, and one of his legs was shorter than the other, causing him to walk with a slight limp. “I’m Father C,” he
said as he reached out and shook N’s hand. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to become a Catholic,” N said.
“Is your name N?”
N nodded.
“Yes, Father F told me about you.” Father C turned and sat back down. He gestured toward a straight-backed chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
N sat. For the longest time, he and the priest stared at each other. Then the priest said, “So you’ve met a cute little Mexican girl, and you think you want to become a Catholic.”
“You sound like my Father,” N said.
“I am your father,” the priest said. “Your Father in Christ.” Again, they stared at each other. After a while, the priest spoke. “So, my son, what makes you think you want to be Catholic other than wanting to be with this cute little girl?”
N squirmed in his chair. The hoax would be hard enough to perpetrate without all these questions. “Can’t we just cut to the chase?” he asked.
“This is the chase,” the priest said. “Answer my question.”
N tried to stare the priest down, but the man’s grey-green eyes never strayed from N’s. After giving up the stare, N said, “My mother used to take me to the Baptist church when I was younger. All I ever heard there was what a big sinner I was.”
“You think that’s not true?”
“No, I know it’s true. But that’s part of my problem. They wanted me to make this decision for Christ and then go off and sin no more. But it didn’t work like that. I came forward one Sunday and prayed with the minister, and I felt real good about it. But I kept right on sinning, and a week later, I didn’t feel any better than when I first came forward.”
“And?”
“Well, I had some friends who were Catholics. And they kept sinning, too. But every week they got to go to church and confess. I think this was a better way to do it. To get it all off your chest and start fresh each week instead of saving up all your sins to the point where you feel like they’re crushing you.”
“And how do you think the priest takes away your sins?” the priest asked. “By giving you a few ‘Hail, Marys’ and an ‘Our Father’ or two?”
“I guess,” N said. “Something like that. I don’t know. I mean, the only time I got a fresh start in the Baptist church was at the beginning. But I kept wanting to be forgiven. I kept wanting to feel better about myself.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not saying it right.”
“No, you’re saying it fine. I understand you might actually be serious about your decision. Father F thought you were turning Catholic only because of this girl. That’s why he wanted me to discourage you.”
“Oh,” N said. He felt numb.
Later that week, N and M huddled together in the front seat of his Impala as M asked him questions. “What is God?”
“God is God. What else can He be? What can I say?”
M shook her head. “God is a spirit infinitely perfect.”
N shook his head and sighed.
“Does God have a beginning?”
“No. No beginning.”
“Where is God?”
“Everywhere.”
“Then why don’t we see Him?”
“We don’t see God because– He is a pure spirit– and cannot be seen with–, cannot be seen with– .”
“Bodily eyes. Cannot be seen with bodily eyes.”
N shook his head in frustration. “I’m never going to get this. I can’t believe it’s going to take six months just to change religions.”
“Does that mean you’re giving up?”
N’s face turned red. Not only did he hear the question, he also imagined hearing his father: “When the novelty wears off, you quit. You always quit.”
“No,” he said. “Let’s start again.”
She took a deep breath. “What is God?”
“God is– , God is– .”
“God is a–.”
“No, don’t tell me.” He reflected a moment. “God is a spirit.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “There’s more.”
“A spirit–,” He paused. Another word came to him. “A spirit infinitely—something.”
“Should I tell you?”
“Perfect. God is a spirit infinitely perfect.”
“Yes.”
“God has no beginning. He is everywhere.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I can do this.”
The next day, N went to his first confession. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”
“It’s never been, Father. This is my first confession ever.”
“I see. Go ahead.”
“I’ve sinned so much I don’t know where to start. “So much anger in me. So much lust.”
“I’m an old man, my son. I’m not as fascinated by sin as I used to be. Just hit the highlights.”
“When I was in the fourth grade, I punched a kid in the nose as hard as I could just because I wanted to see him bleed.”
“Hmm. Are you sorry about that?”
“Yes I am, Father. And when I was sixteen, I forced this girl to have sex with me. And when she stopped moving underneath me, I hit her with my fist.”
The priest didn’t say anything for a while. Then he said, “How do you feel about that?”
“I feel ashamed, Father. I can’t believe I did that.”
“Were you drinking at the time?”
“Yes, Father. I was drunk.”
“Well, clearly, you need to perform an act of contrition.”
“Tell me how, Father. I’ll do it.”
That Sunday, at fifteen minutes to eight, N met M and her family outside the church.
“Are you going to sit with the family?” she asked.
The thought made him uncomfortable. He looked at the dark eyes which protruded from the homely faces of her sisters and the leathery faces of her parents. If there’s such a thing as Mexican Claustrophobia, he thought, I’m going through it now. “Can we sit by ourselves?”
“Sure.” N took her hand and walked slowly into the church. “Where do you want to sit?” she asked.
“There,” he said, pointing to space next to the aisle in the last pew.
She walked to the edge of the pew, genuflected at the end of the row, and made the Sign of the Cross. Then she got up, entered the pews and sat down. He followed her and plunked himself down beside her.
“Why didn’t you kneel?”
“I didn’t know if I was supposed to,” he lied. In truth, he didn’t like kneeling. He didn’t like the pain it caused in his right knee, which had been injured twice in football, and he didn’t like the constricted feeling in his heart, as if the mere act of genuflecting was somehow attacking the very core of his personality.
“Go ahead,” she said. “It’ll be good practice for you.”
N stood up and moved out to the end of the row. Quickly, he genuflected and crossed himself, touching his forehead, his chest, his right shoulder, then his left shoulder. M got up and knelt beside him. “When you make the Sign of the Cross,” she whispered, “you go from left to right, not from right to left.” She demonstrated. Nodding, he copied her movements. They both got up and sat down in the pew. As he sat there, he yearned for the simplicity of a Baptist worship service.
“Father,” M said. “I want you to meet N. He wants to become a Catholic.”
“I see,” said the priest. “Does he have a sponsor?”
“I’m his sponsor,” Maria replied.
Father F wrinkled his nose, as if something in M’s declaration had a disagreeable smell. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small notepad, and scribbled something on the first page. He tore off the page and handed it to N. “Go to this parish, my son, and ask for Father C.”
“But Father,” M said. “I thought you would give him the instruction.”
“Normally I would,” Father F agreed. “But in these circumstances, I think your young man here needs to talk to Father C.”
N drove to the parish address Father F had written on the note pad. He entered the church cautiously, shielding his face from the sunlight that cascaded down through the high windows, painting the stark white walls with bright colors. The dark wooden trim and scenes from Christ’s life depicted in the stained glass windows made the church feel oppressive. It was as if the omniscient sanctuary knew that N was perpetrating a fraud.
It took N a while to find the office. He had to stop twice and ask kneeling parishioners where it was located. Eventually, he found the door and knocked. “Come in,” called a deep voice. N opened the door. “Yes, my son. May I help you?”
“ “I’m looking for Father C,” N said.. “Father F sent me”
A priest with a long, pale face stood up and took a few steps. Tall and lean, he looked quite fit for a man his age. He had a great shock of white hair on the top of his head, and one of his legs was shorter than the other, causing him to walk with a slight limp. “I’m Father C,” he
said as he reached out and shook N’s hand. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to become a Catholic,” N said.
“Is your name N?”
N nodded.
“Yes, Father F told me about you.” Father C turned and sat back down. He gestured toward a straight-backed chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
N sat. For the longest time, he and the priest stared at each other. Then the priest said, “So you’ve met a cute little Mexican girl, and you think you want to become a Catholic.”
“You sound like my Father,” N said.
“I am your father,” the priest said. “Your Father in Christ.” Again, they stared at each other. After a while, the priest spoke. “So, my son, what makes you think you want to be Catholic other than wanting to be with this cute little girl?”
N squirmed in his chair. The hoax would be hard enough to perpetrate without all these questions. “Can’t we just cut to the chase?” he asked.
“This is the chase,” the priest said. “Answer my question.”
N tried to stare the priest down, but the man’s grey-green eyes never strayed from N’s. After giving up the stare, N said, “My mother used to take me to the Baptist church when I was younger. All I ever heard there was what a big sinner I was.”
“You think that’s not true?”
“No, I know it’s true. But that’s part of my problem. They wanted me to make this decision for Christ and then go off and sin no more. But it didn’t work like that. I came forward one Sunday and prayed with the minister, and I felt real good about it. But I kept right on sinning, and a week later, I didn’t feel any better than when I first came forward.”
“And?”
“Well, I had some friends who were Catholics. And they kept sinning, too. But every week they got to go to church and confess. I think this was a better way to do it. To get it all off your chest and start fresh each week instead of saving up all your sins to the point where you feel like they’re crushing you.”
“And how do you think the priest takes away your sins?” the priest asked. “By giving you a few ‘Hail, Marys’ and an ‘Our Father’ or two?”
“I guess,” N said. “Something like that. I don’t know. I mean, the only time I got a fresh start in the Baptist church was at the beginning. But I kept wanting to be forgiven. I kept wanting to feel better about myself.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not saying it right.”
“No, you’re saying it fine. I understand you might actually be serious about your decision. Father F thought you were turning Catholic only because of this girl. That’s why he wanted me to discourage you.”
“Oh,” N said. He felt numb.
Later that week, N and M huddled together in the front seat of his Impala as M asked him questions. “What is God?”
“God is God. What else can He be? What can I say?”
M shook her head. “God is a spirit infinitely perfect.”
N shook his head and sighed.
“Does God have a beginning?”
“No. No beginning.”
“Where is God?”
“Everywhere.”
“Then why don’t we see Him?”
“We don’t see God because– He is a pure spirit– and cannot be seen with–, cannot be seen with– .”
“Bodily eyes. Cannot be seen with bodily eyes.”
N shook his head in frustration. “I’m never going to get this. I can’t believe it’s going to take six months just to change religions.”
“Does that mean you’re giving up?”
N’s face turned red. Not only did he hear the question, he also imagined hearing his father: “When the novelty wears off, you quit. You always quit.”
“No,” he said. “Let’s start again.”
She took a deep breath. “What is God?”
“God is– , God is– .”
“God is a–.”
“No, don’t tell me.” He reflected a moment. “God is a spirit.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “There’s more.”
“A spirit–,” He paused. Another word came to him. “A spirit infinitely—something.”
“Should I tell you?”
“Perfect. God is a spirit infinitely perfect.”
“Yes.”
“God has no beginning. He is everywhere.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I can do this.”
The next day, N went to his first confession. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”
“It’s never been, Father. This is my first confession ever.”
“I see. Go ahead.”
“I’ve sinned so much I don’t know where to start. “So much anger in me. So much lust.”
“I’m an old man, my son. I’m not as fascinated by sin as I used to be. Just hit the highlights.”
“When I was in the fourth grade, I punched a kid in the nose as hard as I could just because I wanted to see him bleed.”
“Hmm. Are you sorry about that?”
“Yes I am, Father. And when I was sixteen, I forced this girl to have sex with me. And when she stopped moving underneath me, I hit her with my fist.”
The priest didn’t say anything for a while. Then he said, “How do you feel about that?”
“I feel ashamed, Father. I can’t believe I did that.”
“Were you drinking at the time?”
“Yes, Father. I was drunk.”
“Well, clearly, you need to perform an act of contrition.”
“Tell me how, Father. I’ll do it.”
That Sunday, at fifteen minutes to eight, N met M and her family outside the church.
“Are you going to sit with the family?” she asked.
The thought made him uncomfortable. He looked at the dark eyes which protruded from the homely faces of her sisters and the leathery faces of her parents. If there’s such a thing as Mexican Claustrophobia, he thought, I’m going through it now. “Can we sit by ourselves?”
“Sure.” N took her hand and walked slowly into the church. “Where do you want to sit?” she asked.
“There,” he said, pointing to space next to the aisle in the last pew.
She walked to the edge of the pew, genuflected at the end of the row, and made the Sign of the Cross. Then she got up, entered the pews and sat down. He followed her and plunked himself down beside her.
“Why didn’t you kneel?”
“I didn’t know if I was supposed to,” he lied. In truth, he didn’t like kneeling. He didn’t like the pain it caused in his right knee, which had been injured twice in football, and he didn’t like the constricted feeling in his heart, as if the mere act of genuflecting was somehow attacking the very core of his personality.
“Go ahead,” she said. “It’ll be good practice for you.”
N stood up and moved out to the end of the row. Quickly, he genuflected and crossed himself, touching his forehead, his chest, his right shoulder, then his left shoulder. M got up and knelt beside him. “When you make the Sign of the Cross,” she whispered, “you go from left to right, not from right to left.” She demonstrated. Nodding, he copied her movements. They both got up and sat down in the pew. As he sat there, he yearned for the simplicity of a Baptist worship service.
LA MORENITA, Chapter 21
Araceli read what she had written so far. Was it true? Was it accurate? She thought it might be. In an effort to learn more, she riffled though old picture albums and asked her parents about the photos. Her mother resisted giving details, but her father, whose memory seemed pleasantly jogged , told her quite a bit. As a result, the words began rolling off the tip of her pen almost as quickly as she could think them up.
#
After that, N and M dated at least once a week, usually on Saturday or Sunday. The dates consisted of a drive in the red Impala along scenic hillsides near the outskirts of town after sunset. N found this exhilarating, but it frightened M. She knew how ugly the scene could get if the wrong persons spotted them. Yet there was something she admired about his naive courage, his desire to defy anyone who challenged his right to be with her.
After the third week, she took him to the small adobe house where she and her family lived. N instantly liked M’s father, a wiry little man with gnarled hands and a dark, leathery face. The man spoke no English and said only a few words in Spanish, but the words he did say were soft, musical and spoken with a smile. M’s mother spent most of her time translating N’s words for her husband, who usually nodded afterwards. Other than that, she never addressed anybody directly unless she was asked a question. Mostly, she stayed only long enough to bring drinks or food to the table and clear the table after everyone was done. M told N that her father was a gardener and her mother worked as a maid. “They like you,” she whispered. N found out later that M’s mother had a recurring dream in which a man with golden hair married M, took her away and cared for her the rest of his life.
“You act as if that’s a bad thing,” N said.
“It is,” M replied. “Mexicans and gringos just don’t get together.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “I see Mexicans and whites hanging out together all the time.”
“What you see is the patron talking to his hired hands. Or gringos who are so poor they live on the same neighborhood as poor Mexicans. And you always see Mexican and gringo men or Mexican and gringo women in a group, but never the men and women together.”
N tried to call up a memory to refute M’s assertion, but he couldn’t.
“I am sorry my parents like you so much,” she said. “But I’m glad my sisters don’t like you.”
N thought about what she said. It was true. The first time he met M’s three older sisters, he had stared intently at each of them, trying to discern what features they had in common with M. They were husky, big-boned girls who, in spite of favoring M in small ways, seemed to have no real beauty of their own. It was as if all three were failed prototypes: clunky Edsel station wagons to M’s classy Mustang sports coupe. He thought the two older ones looked like Indians while the other was darker with Negroid features. Perhaps the sisters sensed his aversion, since they boldly glared back at him, their fierce and silent gazes daring him to articulate any reason why they should view him in any light other than skepticism. The silence had filled the room like an odor even after they left.
“How can you say that?” he asked. “Why do you feel that way?”
“I keep hoping,” she said, “that someday I’ll outgrow you.”
Over the course of their dating life, N developed a special way of looking at things. In his mind there were the two older groups—the Mexicans and the Anglos—with neither group having much in common with or any attraction for the other. Then there was he and M, who were strongly attracted to each other for no logical reason he could figure out. He took it on faith that this was the reason he and M should be together and told her he wanted to build a relationship on something other than race. “Look,” he said. “I know you don’t want to be German, and I don’t want to be Mexican. But we’re both Americans, so that’s who we are.”
“But what does that mean?” she said. “We didn’t come into the world by ourselves. We both have families, and our families have their own prejudices.”
“And what does that mean?” he asked.
“We just can’t face the world by ourselves, as if nothing went on before us.”
“Why not?”
“Why are we still dating? What’s to come of this?”
“I don’t know. I know I don’t want to break it off.”
“What do your parents say?”
“Nothing. I haven’t told them.”
“Then what’s the point?”
He couldn’t tell her what the point was. He knew he wanted her and her alone. Not her parents. Not her sisters. Not anything Mexican but her. He thought of their moments together as something that existed outside of time and reason. He liked this feeling. “Please don’t walk away from me,” he said quietly. “I really care about you.”
“How long are you going to care about me when you realize you can’t keep hiding me all the time?” she asked.
“If I could wear you on my shirt like a badge of honor, I would. But you’re the one who doesn’t like to see me get in fights.”
“You’re just saying that. If you really cared about me, you’d introduce me to your family.”
“I’m not introducing you because I do care about you,” he said. But even as he said this, he knew he would have to introduce her to his parents. The next day, N dialed the number and waited for his mother to answer.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Mom. It’s me.”
“Well. Your father and I were wondering if you were still alive. Why are you calling? Do you need money?”
“There’s this nice girl I’m dating. I really like her, and I want you to meet her.”
“That’s nice. What’s her name?”
“I think I want to change her name.”
“That’s interesting. What did you say her name was?”
“M.”
“Are you joking?”
“No, Mom. I’m not joking. What is that supposed to mean?”
“Whatever happened to that nice German girl you dated in high school, Adelaide Schultz?”
“I think she’s a prostitute, Mom.”
N’s mother was losing patience. “You don’t want to marry this M girl, N.”
“Tell Dad, I’m bringing M to Waco next Sunday so you can both meet her.”
“Is there any way we can get out of it?”
“Actually, Mom, there isn’t.”
He hung up.
#
N and M left San Antonio just before two and pulled up in front of N’s parents’ home around five o’clock. He took her by the arm and walked her to the door. He rang the doorbell five times. After the fifth ring, a tall, balding man with a beer-belly paunch and wisps of hair the
color of corn silk, answered the door. The man wore a dirty tee shirt and a pair of overalls. As he opened the door, a startled expression appeared on his face.
“Didn’t Mom tell you we were coming?” N asked.
N’s father grunted. He stepped away from the door and motioned for them to come in. “You’ve got company,” he said to N’s mother as he turned his back and headed into the kitchen. He kept on going until he disappeared out of the back door.
N’s mother, wearing a gauzy white apron over her Prussian blue church outfit, came rushing out to greet them. “Hello,” she said, extending her hand. “You must be M.”
“I must be,” M said.
“So where did Dad go?” N asked.
“He’s got work to do out back,” N’s mother said.
“Mom, he’s a pump mechanic. Unless he’s got a five stage submersible unit back there, he’s not working on anything.”
“Well, everything’s expanding on his job, dear. They’ve got him in the office now, doing estimates.”
N bolted for the back door. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
N’s mother turned to M. “So. Tell me about yourself, M.” M could hear the uneasiness in her voice.
“There’s not much to tell really,” M said. “I work as a waitress at a cantina near San Antonio, and I like your son a lot.”
“How do your parents feel about N?”
“They like him fine. They think he’s a real gentleman.”
“Are you and N serious about each other?”
“I think we might be.”
“Serious enough to think about marriage?”
“I don’t know. That’s a pretty big step.”
“It certainly is. Especially since N’s a Baptist.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem. He’d said he’d convert.”
N’s mother was too stunned to reply.
As N entered the back yard, he heard the sound of a shop vacuum coming from the garage. He walked over, opened the door, and saw his father vacuuming an already spotless garage floor. Scattered across the surface of the work bench on the opposite wall were bits of gears, vanes, diaphragms, gaskets, and springs. Next to all these pump parts was an open bottle
of Lone Star beer. His father turned in his direction. “Don’t you ever knock?”
N smirked, then went back to the open door and knocked.
“Very funny,” his father said. He waved his hand at a cooler on the garage floor. “Want a beer?”
“What I want,” N said, “is an explanation of why you acted the way you did just now.”
“Your mother said I had to be on my best behavior.”
“That was your best behavior?”
“Have a beer.”
N grabbed a beer from the cooler and popped the cap by slamming it down against the hard edge of the work bench. He turned around and walked out of the garage. His father grabbed his open beer and followed him out.
“You serious about her?”
“Yes.”
“You gonna marry her?”
“Maybe.”
His father shook his head.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you’re going to go ahead and do whatever-the-hell you damn well please, why do you even bother to bring her here?”
“She wanted to meet you two.”
His father snorted and took a long pull from his beer.
“I can’t read your mind,” N said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“You got your undies in a bunch over this one little hot tamale, and you think you want to marry her. That’s what I think.”
“It’s more than that.”
“I can’t believe it, N. You always do what you want on the spur of the moment, regardless of the consequences.”
“It’s not like that this time.”
“It’s exactly like that. You always do what you want to do when you want to do it. And when the novelty wears off, you quit.”
“This time’ll be different.”
“She’s Mexican, for God’s sake! Mexicans are nothing more than brown niggers, for Christ sake! What do you see in her?”
“What did you see in Mom?”
N’s father sighed a heavy sigh, then he drained the contents of his beer bottle.
“Go on,” N said. “Say what’s on your mind.”
“You’ve got a pattern going, N. You quit football in high school. Then you quit high school. You got your G.E.D. in the Marines, and you went on to North Texas State for a year. Now you’re working construction in order to make ends meet, and it’s the longest you’ve ever stuck to anything. If you marry this Mexican girl, which do you think you’ll quit first? Your marriage or your job?”
N took a long sip from his beer and pretended his father wasn’t there.
“Your sophomore year of high school,” his father went on, “your football coach told me you had the talent to become the best running back he ever coached. Later he told me that if you’d stayed at North Texas State, you could’ve become their number one running back.”
“Dad,” N said. “The coach didn’t tell you that my sophomore year. That was several years later when you were both drunk.”
“Are you telling me your coach is a liar?”
“Damn right I am. I wasn’t even first string in high school.”
“That’s because you didn’t apply yourself.”
“Yep. You’re right about that. I didn’t give a shit about football. I played it just to make you happy. And all that happy horseshit about college ball? I wasn’t even the fourth best running back on the freshman squad.”
“Because you didn’t apply yourself.”
“What does all this football crap have to do with anything anyway?”
“Come on, N. You’re always doing self-destructive things. Dropping out. Quitting. Running off. Now you want to marry this little Mexican tramp.”
“Don’t talk about her like that, Dad.”
“It’s my house. I’ll talk about her any way I damn well please.”
“I knew this was a bad idea.” N set his beer down and turned to go into the house.
“Don’t you turn your back on me. “I’m not done with you yet.”
“It doesn’t matter. “I’m done with you.”
#
After that, N and M dated at least once a week, usually on Saturday or Sunday. The dates consisted of a drive in the red Impala along scenic hillsides near the outskirts of town after sunset. N found this exhilarating, but it frightened M. She knew how ugly the scene could get if the wrong persons spotted them. Yet there was something she admired about his naive courage, his desire to defy anyone who challenged his right to be with her.
After the third week, she took him to the small adobe house where she and her family lived. N instantly liked M’s father, a wiry little man with gnarled hands and a dark, leathery face. The man spoke no English and said only a few words in Spanish, but the words he did say were soft, musical and spoken with a smile. M’s mother spent most of her time translating N’s words for her husband, who usually nodded afterwards. Other than that, she never addressed anybody directly unless she was asked a question. Mostly, she stayed only long enough to bring drinks or food to the table and clear the table after everyone was done. M told N that her father was a gardener and her mother worked as a maid. “They like you,” she whispered. N found out later that M’s mother had a recurring dream in which a man with golden hair married M, took her away and cared for her the rest of his life.
“You act as if that’s a bad thing,” N said.
“It is,” M replied. “Mexicans and gringos just don’t get together.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “I see Mexicans and whites hanging out together all the time.”
“What you see is the patron talking to his hired hands. Or gringos who are so poor they live on the same neighborhood as poor Mexicans. And you always see Mexican and gringo men or Mexican and gringo women in a group, but never the men and women together.”
N tried to call up a memory to refute M’s assertion, but he couldn’t.
“I am sorry my parents like you so much,” she said. “But I’m glad my sisters don’t like you.”
N thought about what she said. It was true. The first time he met M’s three older sisters, he had stared intently at each of them, trying to discern what features they had in common with M. They were husky, big-boned girls who, in spite of favoring M in small ways, seemed to have no real beauty of their own. It was as if all three were failed prototypes: clunky Edsel station wagons to M’s classy Mustang sports coupe. He thought the two older ones looked like Indians while the other was darker with Negroid features. Perhaps the sisters sensed his aversion, since they boldly glared back at him, their fierce and silent gazes daring him to articulate any reason why they should view him in any light other than skepticism. The silence had filled the room like an odor even after they left.
“How can you say that?” he asked. “Why do you feel that way?”
“I keep hoping,” she said, “that someday I’ll outgrow you.”
Over the course of their dating life, N developed a special way of looking at things. In his mind there were the two older groups—the Mexicans and the Anglos—with neither group having much in common with or any attraction for the other. Then there was he and M, who were strongly attracted to each other for no logical reason he could figure out. He took it on faith that this was the reason he and M should be together and told her he wanted to build a relationship on something other than race. “Look,” he said. “I know you don’t want to be German, and I don’t want to be Mexican. But we’re both Americans, so that’s who we are.”
“But what does that mean?” she said. “We didn’t come into the world by ourselves. We both have families, and our families have their own prejudices.”
“And what does that mean?” he asked.
“We just can’t face the world by ourselves, as if nothing went on before us.”
“Why not?”
“Why are we still dating? What’s to come of this?”
“I don’t know. I know I don’t want to break it off.”
“What do your parents say?”
“Nothing. I haven’t told them.”
“Then what’s the point?”
He couldn’t tell her what the point was. He knew he wanted her and her alone. Not her parents. Not her sisters. Not anything Mexican but her. He thought of their moments together as something that existed outside of time and reason. He liked this feeling. “Please don’t walk away from me,” he said quietly. “I really care about you.”
“How long are you going to care about me when you realize you can’t keep hiding me all the time?” she asked.
“If I could wear you on my shirt like a badge of honor, I would. But you’re the one who doesn’t like to see me get in fights.”
“You’re just saying that. If you really cared about me, you’d introduce me to your family.”
“I’m not introducing you because I do care about you,” he said. But even as he said this, he knew he would have to introduce her to his parents. The next day, N dialed the number and waited for his mother to answer.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Mom. It’s me.”
“Well. Your father and I were wondering if you were still alive. Why are you calling? Do you need money?”
“There’s this nice girl I’m dating. I really like her, and I want you to meet her.”
“That’s nice. What’s her name?”
“I think I want to change her name.”
“That’s interesting. What did you say her name was?”
“M.”
“Are you joking?”
“No, Mom. I’m not joking. What is that supposed to mean?”
“Whatever happened to that nice German girl you dated in high school, Adelaide Schultz?”
“I think she’s a prostitute, Mom.”
N’s mother was losing patience. “You don’t want to marry this M girl, N.”
“Tell Dad, I’m bringing M to Waco next Sunday so you can both meet her.”
“Is there any way we can get out of it?”
“Actually, Mom, there isn’t.”
He hung up.
#
N and M left San Antonio just before two and pulled up in front of N’s parents’ home around five o’clock. He took her by the arm and walked her to the door. He rang the doorbell five times. After the fifth ring, a tall, balding man with a beer-belly paunch and wisps of hair the
color of corn silk, answered the door. The man wore a dirty tee shirt and a pair of overalls. As he opened the door, a startled expression appeared on his face.
“Didn’t Mom tell you we were coming?” N asked.
N’s father grunted. He stepped away from the door and motioned for them to come in. “You’ve got company,” he said to N’s mother as he turned his back and headed into the kitchen. He kept on going until he disappeared out of the back door.
N’s mother, wearing a gauzy white apron over her Prussian blue church outfit, came rushing out to greet them. “Hello,” she said, extending her hand. “You must be M.”
“I must be,” M said.
“So where did Dad go?” N asked.
“He’s got work to do out back,” N’s mother said.
“Mom, he’s a pump mechanic. Unless he’s got a five stage submersible unit back there, he’s not working on anything.”
“Well, everything’s expanding on his job, dear. They’ve got him in the office now, doing estimates.”
N bolted for the back door. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
N’s mother turned to M. “So. Tell me about yourself, M.” M could hear the uneasiness in her voice.
“There’s not much to tell really,” M said. “I work as a waitress at a cantina near San Antonio, and I like your son a lot.”
“How do your parents feel about N?”
“They like him fine. They think he’s a real gentleman.”
“Are you and N serious about each other?”
“I think we might be.”
“Serious enough to think about marriage?”
“I don’t know. That’s a pretty big step.”
“It certainly is. Especially since N’s a Baptist.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem. He’d said he’d convert.”
N’s mother was too stunned to reply.
As N entered the back yard, he heard the sound of a shop vacuum coming from the garage. He walked over, opened the door, and saw his father vacuuming an already spotless garage floor. Scattered across the surface of the work bench on the opposite wall were bits of gears, vanes, diaphragms, gaskets, and springs. Next to all these pump parts was an open bottle
of Lone Star beer. His father turned in his direction. “Don’t you ever knock?”
N smirked, then went back to the open door and knocked.
“Very funny,” his father said. He waved his hand at a cooler on the garage floor. “Want a beer?”
“What I want,” N said, “is an explanation of why you acted the way you did just now.”
“Your mother said I had to be on my best behavior.”
“That was your best behavior?”
“Have a beer.”
N grabbed a beer from the cooler and popped the cap by slamming it down against the hard edge of the work bench. He turned around and walked out of the garage. His father grabbed his open beer and followed him out.
“You serious about her?”
“Yes.”
“You gonna marry her?”
“Maybe.”
His father shook his head.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you’re going to go ahead and do whatever-the-hell you damn well please, why do you even bother to bring her here?”
“She wanted to meet you two.”
His father snorted and took a long pull from his beer.
“I can’t read your mind,” N said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“You got your undies in a bunch over this one little hot tamale, and you think you want to marry her. That’s what I think.”
“It’s more than that.”
“I can’t believe it, N. You always do what you want on the spur of the moment, regardless of the consequences.”
“It’s not like that this time.”
“It’s exactly like that. You always do what you want to do when you want to do it. And when the novelty wears off, you quit.”
“This time’ll be different.”
“She’s Mexican, for God’s sake! Mexicans are nothing more than brown niggers, for Christ sake! What do you see in her?”
“What did you see in Mom?”
N’s father sighed a heavy sigh, then he drained the contents of his beer bottle.
“Go on,” N said. “Say what’s on your mind.”
“You’ve got a pattern going, N. You quit football in high school. Then you quit high school. You got your G.E.D. in the Marines, and you went on to North Texas State for a year. Now you’re working construction in order to make ends meet, and it’s the longest you’ve ever stuck to anything. If you marry this Mexican girl, which do you think you’ll quit first? Your marriage or your job?”
N took a long sip from his beer and pretended his father wasn’t there.
“Your sophomore year of high school,” his father went on, “your football coach told me you had the talent to become the best running back he ever coached. Later he told me that if you’d stayed at North Texas State, you could’ve become their number one running back.”
“Dad,” N said. “The coach didn’t tell you that my sophomore year. That was several years later when you were both drunk.”
“Are you telling me your coach is a liar?”
“Damn right I am. I wasn’t even first string in high school.”
“That’s because you didn’t apply yourself.”
“Yep. You’re right about that. I didn’t give a shit about football. I played it just to make you happy. And all that happy horseshit about college ball? I wasn’t even the fourth best running back on the freshman squad.”
“Because you didn’t apply yourself.”
“What does all this football crap have to do with anything anyway?”
“Come on, N. You’re always doing self-destructive things. Dropping out. Quitting. Running off. Now you want to marry this little Mexican tramp.”
“Don’t talk about her like that, Dad.”
“It’s my house. I’ll talk about her any way I damn well please.”
“I knew this was a bad idea.” N set his beer down and turned to go into the house.
“Don’t you turn your back on me. “I’m not done with you yet.”
“It doesn’t matter. “I’m done with you.”
Saturday, June 19
LA MORENITA, Chapter 20
“Cuantos?” the bored woman at the Chaparral Theater box office said. N turned to M.
“Dos,” M said.
The woman frowned as she pushed the tickets forward. N paid and took the tickets. He started to say something rude when he realized the woman probably wouldn’t understand him. M pulled him away by the elbow.
“Don’t pull me like that,” he said.
“You’re in the way,” she said. “Others are trying to get in to see the movie.” N moved out of the way and turned to study the others standing in line. Skinny boys, the kind M referred to as ‘flacos’ and thick, sturdy boys she called ‘gordos’ stood next to dark-haired girls of all shapes and sizes in tight, sleeveless blouses and blue jeans. The clothes they had on were well-worn but clean. He took a long look at each of the girls and decided that he wasn’t attracted to any of them.
“Come on,” M said. “Let’s go in.”
They went inside. A tall ‘flaco’ with light brown skin and jet black hair took their tickets and nodded deferentially toward N. N nodded back.
“How about the balcony?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “We’re not going to fumble around inside each others clothes, and that’s what they do in balconies.”
The movie, which was in English with Spanish subtitles, was sparsely attended. N and M took their seats on the right side in the back row next to the aisle. When he reached for her hand, she didn’t pull away, but they both concentrated on the movie.
When it was over, N realized that, except for the hockey scenes, he didn’t enjoy the movie. “That movie wasn’t really much,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“That’s the sorriest damn thing I’ve ever seen in my life!”
Maria laughed and told him she loved it. Throughout the movie, he had been excited by the warmth of her upper arm as it rested against his. He had wanted to wrap his own arm around her or drop one hand in her lap. Anything that would make him feel closer to her. At the end, when she cried, he turned his face to hers and kissed the softest lips he’d ever kissed.
Outside the theater, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and offered it to her. She took it and dabbed at her eyes.
A young Mexican approached. “Hey, rubio,” he said. “What are you doing here? Slumming?” The boy was stocky, but too muscular to be called ‘gordo’.
Anger flashed in N’s eyes. He stepped forward to say something when M grabbed his arm. “Don’t you dare!” she said. “You say one word, and I’ll never speak to you again.”
The boy chortled, mumbled something unintelligible, and moved on.
#
Araceli stopped. A word she never heard before popped into her consciousness. She scratched out the last sentence and replaced it.
#
The Mexican chortled, mumbled something under his breath, then moved on.
N could make out the word—maricón—, but he didn’t know what it meant.
#
Araceli reached into the chest at the foot of her bed and extracted a Spanish-English dictionary. She thumbed through it until she located the word and read: “Maricón: sissy, effeminate.” She put it away and continued writing.
#
After the boy moved on, N turned to M. “I hope you had a good time,” he said.
“I surprised myself,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“I had a great time.”
“Then why did you cry?”
“Don’t make fun of me,” she said as she wiped the corners of her eyes and laughed.
“Would you like to get a bite to eat?”
“Maybe. What do you have in mind?”
“Burgers and fries.”
She paused. Then she said,“Okay.”
He helped her into his car, a red 1959 Impala, then drove to a burger joint on the edge of the barrio, where the houses of Mexicans and poor whites stood side-by-side. He ordered for her and discovered too late that she wanted to order for herself.
“Why?” he asked. “What’s the problem?”
“I wouldn’t have ordered fries,” she said. “And I prefer chocolate shakes to vanilla.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll never do that again.”
She nodded and ate her fries.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Greasy,” she said.
When they came out of the burger joint, a tall, barrel-chested teenager with freckles and hair the color of wet straw approached N and blocked his way. “Hey, you!” the boy shouted. “Just what the hell are you trying to prove?”
“I’m trying to prove it’s a free country,” N said casually.
“It ain’t free for spicks,” the boy said.
“That’s not what our Constitution says.”
Just then, a short, pock-faced boy with slicked-back, dirty brown hair approached M and grabbed her by the arm. “Hey, dark meat, you want to do it with me?” N grabbed him from behind and flung him into the street, where he fell on his backside and spun like a top.
The barrel-chested boy advanced quickly on N. “Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size?” he said.
“Okay,” N said. Before the boy knew what happened, N threw a hard punch that landed on the tip of the boy’s chin, causing him to fall backwards—hard—against the cement and lose consciousness.
N took a step back and raised his fists as two more boys advanced on him. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.
The boys stood their ground, posturing for a few seconds. Then they peeled away to help their unconscious friend.
N turned back to M. She was so upset she was shaking. “I’m sorry about this,” he said.
“Me, too,” she said.
She clung to his arm as he scooted with her back to his red Impala.
“Dos,” M said.
The woman frowned as she pushed the tickets forward. N paid and took the tickets. He started to say something rude when he realized the woman probably wouldn’t understand him. M pulled him away by the elbow.
“Don’t pull me like that,” he said.
“You’re in the way,” she said. “Others are trying to get in to see the movie.” N moved out of the way and turned to study the others standing in line. Skinny boys, the kind M referred to as ‘flacos’ and thick, sturdy boys she called ‘gordos’ stood next to dark-haired girls of all shapes and sizes in tight, sleeveless blouses and blue jeans. The clothes they had on were well-worn but clean. He took a long look at each of the girls and decided that he wasn’t attracted to any of them.
“Come on,” M said. “Let’s go in.”
They went inside. A tall ‘flaco’ with light brown skin and jet black hair took their tickets and nodded deferentially toward N. N nodded back.
“How about the balcony?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “We’re not going to fumble around inside each others clothes, and that’s what they do in balconies.”
The movie, which was in English with Spanish subtitles, was sparsely attended. N and M took their seats on the right side in the back row next to the aisle. When he reached for her hand, she didn’t pull away, but they both concentrated on the movie.
When it was over, N realized that, except for the hockey scenes, he didn’t enjoy the movie. “That movie wasn’t really much,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“That’s the sorriest damn thing I’ve ever seen in my life!”
Maria laughed and told him she loved it. Throughout the movie, he had been excited by the warmth of her upper arm as it rested against his. He had wanted to wrap his own arm around her or drop one hand in her lap. Anything that would make him feel closer to her. At the end, when she cried, he turned his face to hers and kissed the softest lips he’d ever kissed.
Outside the theater, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and offered it to her. She took it and dabbed at her eyes.
A young Mexican approached. “Hey, rubio,” he said. “What are you doing here? Slumming?” The boy was stocky, but too muscular to be called ‘gordo’.
Anger flashed in N’s eyes. He stepped forward to say something when M grabbed his arm. “Don’t you dare!” she said. “You say one word, and I’ll never speak to you again.”
The boy chortled, mumbled something unintelligible, and moved on.
#
Araceli stopped. A word she never heard before popped into her consciousness. She scratched out the last sentence and replaced it.
#
The Mexican chortled, mumbled something under his breath, then moved on.
N could make out the word—maricón—, but he didn’t know what it meant.
#
Araceli reached into the chest at the foot of her bed and extracted a Spanish-English dictionary. She thumbed through it until she located the word and read: “Maricón: sissy, effeminate.” She put it away and continued writing.
#
After the boy moved on, N turned to M. “I hope you had a good time,” he said.
“I surprised myself,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“I had a great time.”
“Then why did you cry?”
“Don’t make fun of me,” she said as she wiped the corners of her eyes and laughed.
“Would you like to get a bite to eat?”
“Maybe. What do you have in mind?”
“Burgers and fries.”
She paused. Then she said,“Okay.”
He helped her into his car, a red 1959 Impala, then drove to a burger joint on the edge of the barrio, where the houses of Mexicans and poor whites stood side-by-side. He ordered for her and discovered too late that she wanted to order for herself.
“Why?” he asked. “What’s the problem?”
“I wouldn’t have ordered fries,” she said. “And I prefer chocolate shakes to vanilla.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll never do that again.”
She nodded and ate her fries.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Greasy,” she said.
When they came out of the burger joint, a tall, barrel-chested teenager with freckles and hair the color of wet straw approached N and blocked his way. “Hey, you!” the boy shouted. “Just what the hell are you trying to prove?”
“I’m trying to prove it’s a free country,” N said casually.
“It ain’t free for spicks,” the boy said.
“That’s not what our Constitution says.”
Just then, a short, pock-faced boy with slicked-back, dirty brown hair approached M and grabbed her by the arm. “Hey, dark meat, you want to do it with me?” N grabbed him from behind and flung him into the street, where he fell on his backside and spun like a top.
The barrel-chested boy advanced quickly on N. “Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size?” he said.
“Okay,” N said. Before the boy knew what happened, N threw a hard punch that landed on the tip of the boy’s chin, causing him to fall backwards—hard—against the cement and lose consciousness.
N took a step back and raised his fists as two more boys advanced on him. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.
The boys stood their ground, posturing for a few seconds. Then they peeled away to help their unconscious friend.
N turned back to M. She was so upset she was shaking. “I’m sorry about this,” he said.
“Me, too,” she said.
She clung to his arm as he scooted with her back to his red Impala.
LA MORENITA, Chapter 19
Araceli didn’t write a word that she didn’t scratch out for the next two weeks. Every sentence she added to her notebook felt wrong. On some days, she stared at blank pages for hours and wrote nothing. On those days, she would give up, go down to the river and talk to the raven. The raven kept telling Araceli she was on a journey of discovery and, although it would be worth it, the journey would never be easy. She insisted that Araceli accept those conditions as part of her life. The next day, Araceli tried to write.
#
N sat at a table on the patio outside the cantina and waited for M to take his order. She walked out to greet him, smiled and turned as if to leave. When she turned back, he smiled and shrugged.
She approached him. “Why do you do this to yourself?” she asked. “You’ve been coming here for weeks, ordering the same enchiladas day after day and asking me out, even though I refuse you every time you ask.”
He couldn’t tell her he was hoping to diffuse some of his infatuation so he could feel in control of his life again, or that he wanted to win a bet with C. “One of these days I’ll wear you down” he said. “Or you’ll take pity on me and say yes.”
“A good-looking guy like you needs a mercy date?”
“Just go out with me once,” he pleaded. “I can’t explain the way I feel. I just never thought I could be attracted to anyone like you.”
“Well, that’s comforting,” she said sourly. “What would you like with your enchiladas?”
“Beer.”
When she returned with his order, he grabbed her wrist. “Okay, look,” he said. “Go out with me one time, and I’ll never bother you again.”
She was bothered by his grip and the fierce way he looked at her. “Let’s get one thing straight,” she said. “I’m not somebody you can get involved with and then just throw away. Boys like you don’t go out with girls like me except for one reason.”
“It’s not like that,” he insisted. “I want to get to know you.”
She tried to pull away.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not good at stuff like this.” He released his grip. “How about this Saturday or Sunday? We can go out in the afternoon, so it won’t be like a big date.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “And where would we go on this date?”
“How about a movie? I’ll let you pick the movie and the theater.”
“Well,” she said. “I would like to see this new movie with Ryan O’Neal and Ali MacGraw.”
He grimaced. “Love Story? You want to see Love Story?”
“You said I could choose.”
"How about Tora! Tora! Tora!?”
“You said I could choose.”
He sighed. From inside the cantina, another waitress, called out. “M! Your orders are backing up!”
Against her better judgement, she scribbled her phone number on the back of his lunch ticket and dropped it on the table.
#
Araceli looked at what she had written. She didn’t know where the details came from and didn’t feel like scratching any of them out. But she was stuck. She didn’t know what happened next. She took her notebook and went down to the river, but the raven didn’t come. Where is that raven? she asked herself. Has she sneaked away without telling me? Did she lie when she said she would give me a warning before she left?
She opened the notebook and stared at the blank lines below the descriptions she had just written. Without waiting for inspiration and for lack of anything else to do, she wrote.
#
M picked the phone up on the first ring. “Bueno, Quìen es?”
“What?”
“Oh, It’s you.”
“Yeah, it’s me. How come you’re so cold all of a sudden?”
“I’m having second thoughts. I don’t think either one of us is thinking right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just going to be honest. I think you are so handsome you make my knees weak.”
“I’m glad to hear that,”.
“But so what? What future will we have? People will hate seeing us together. To them, I’ll be a spick and you’ll be a spick-lover. Or maybe they’ll think you’re a blonde Mexican. Is that what you want?”
“What I want is you.”
“Some things in life you cannot have.”
“I’m serious!”
“But you’re not being realistic. I think we should call this whole thing off.”
A sick feeling seeped into his guts. “You promised,” he said. “And if you break your promise, I’ll be at your cantina every day, hounding you for a date until you say yes.”
“Look,” she said. “I like you lusting after me. That makes me feel good. But that’s all it is. A feeling. Don’t you understand?”
“No, I don’t. Don’t you even have the courage to try?”
She sighed.
“What’s that mean?”
“Love Story is playing at three theaters right now. The State, The Alamo, and the Chaparral. The State and Alamo are in gringo neighborhoods where Mexicans don’t go. That leaves the Chaparral, which is in a mostly Mexican neighborhood.”
“You pick the theater,” he insisted.
“Okay,” she said. “The Chaparral it is. When you get a taste of Mexicans reacting to your being there,—”
“That’s not going to stop me.”
“Fine. It’ll do you some good to see that Mexicans don’t like gringos any better than gringos like Mexicans.”
“Hey. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got big shoulders.”
“Yeah. I noticed that. Are you Catholic?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Answer it.”
“My parents are Baptists, so I guess if I’m anything, I’m that.”
“You see? We don’t even have the same faith. You scare me so much I’m making the Sign of the Cross right now.”
“What? You want me to convert?”
“My parents will.”
“Well, you know what? I went to a Catholic mass once, and I thought it was cool. All that kneeling and incense and stuff. Real wine and wafers. This is my body. This is my blood. All the Baptists ever have are crackers and grape juice.”
“I’m sorry your Baptist food choices don’t please you. Does that mean you’d convert?”
“If you want me to.”
“We both should have better sense.”
“And?”
After a long pause, she said, “Pick me up at noon.”
#
N sat at a table on the patio outside the cantina and waited for M to take his order. She walked out to greet him, smiled and turned as if to leave. When she turned back, he smiled and shrugged.
She approached him. “Why do you do this to yourself?” she asked. “You’ve been coming here for weeks, ordering the same enchiladas day after day and asking me out, even though I refuse you every time you ask.”
He couldn’t tell her he was hoping to diffuse some of his infatuation so he could feel in control of his life again, or that he wanted to win a bet with C. “One of these days I’ll wear you down” he said. “Or you’ll take pity on me and say yes.”
“A good-looking guy like you needs a mercy date?”
“Just go out with me once,” he pleaded. “I can’t explain the way I feel. I just never thought I could be attracted to anyone like you.”
“Well, that’s comforting,” she said sourly. “What would you like with your enchiladas?”
“Beer.”
When she returned with his order, he grabbed her wrist. “Okay, look,” he said. “Go out with me one time, and I’ll never bother you again.”
She was bothered by his grip and the fierce way he looked at her. “Let’s get one thing straight,” she said. “I’m not somebody you can get involved with and then just throw away. Boys like you don’t go out with girls like me except for one reason.”
“It’s not like that,” he insisted. “I want to get to know you.”
She tried to pull away.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not good at stuff like this.” He released his grip. “How about this Saturday or Sunday? We can go out in the afternoon, so it won’t be like a big date.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “And where would we go on this date?”
“How about a movie? I’ll let you pick the movie and the theater.”
“Well,” she said. “I would like to see this new movie with Ryan O’Neal and Ali MacGraw.”
He grimaced. “Love Story? You want to see Love Story?”
“You said I could choose.”
"How about Tora! Tora! Tora!?”
“You said I could choose.”
He sighed. From inside the cantina, another waitress, called out. “M! Your orders are backing up!”
Against her better judgement, she scribbled her phone number on the back of his lunch ticket and dropped it on the table.
#
Araceli looked at what she had written. She didn’t know where the details came from and didn’t feel like scratching any of them out. But she was stuck. She didn’t know what happened next. She took her notebook and went down to the river, but the raven didn’t come. Where is that raven? she asked herself. Has she sneaked away without telling me? Did she lie when she said she would give me a warning before she left?
She opened the notebook and stared at the blank lines below the descriptions she had just written. Without waiting for inspiration and for lack of anything else to do, she wrote.
#
M picked the phone up on the first ring. “Bueno, Quìen es?”
“What?”
“Oh, It’s you.”
“Yeah, it’s me. How come you’re so cold all of a sudden?”
“I’m having second thoughts. I don’t think either one of us is thinking right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just going to be honest. I think you are so handsome you make my knees weak.”
“I’m glad to hear that,”.
“But so what? What future will we have? People will hate seeing us together. To them, I’ll be a spick and you’ll be a spick-lover. Or maybe they’ll think you’re a blonde Mexican. Is that what you want?”
“What I want is you.”
“Some things in life you cannot have.”
“I’m serious!”
“But you’re not being realistic. I think we should call this whole thing off.”
A sick feeling seeped into his guts. “You promised,” he said. “And if you break your promise, I’ll be at your cantina every day, hounding you for a date until you say yes.”
“Look,” she said. “I like you lusting after me. That makes me feel good. But that’s all it is. A feeling. Don’t you understand?”
“No, I don’t. Don’t you even have the courage to try?”
She sighed.
“What’s that mean?”
“Love Story is playing at three theaters right now. The State, The Alamo, and the Chaparral. The State and Alamo are in gringo neighborhoods where Mexicans don’t go. That leaves the Chaparral, which is in a mostly Mexican neighborhood.”
“You pick the theater,” he insisted.
“Okay,” she said. “The Chaparral it is. When you get a taste of Mexicans reacting to your being there,—”
“That’s not going to stop me.”
“Fine. It’ll do you some good to see that Mexicans don’t like gringos any better than gringos like Mexicans.”
“Hey. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got big shoulders.”
“Yeah. I noticed that. Are you Catholic?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Answer it.”
“My parents are Baptists, so I guess if I’m anything, I’m that.”
“You see? We don’t even have the same faith. You scare me so much I’m making the Sign of the Cross right now.”
“What? You want me to convert?”
“My parents will.”
“Well, you know what? I went to a Catholic mass once, and I thought it was cool. All that kneeling and incense and stuff. Real wine and wafers. This is my body. This is my blood. All the Baptists ever have are crackers and grape juice.”
“I’m sorry your Baptist food choices don’t please you. Does that mean you’d convert?”
“If you want me to.”
“We both should have better sense.”
“And?”
After a long pause, she said, “Pick me up at noon.”
LA MORENITA, Chapter 18
“Is that true?” the raven asked.
“I’m not sure,” Araceli said. “But I know it’s not fake.”
“Keep working on it,” the raven said.
When Araceli got home, she went straight to her room. She opened the notebook and wrote.
“Okay, so you’re right, C,” N said. “But I’ll bet I can get her to go out with me.”
#
Later that afternoon, Araceli waited for further inspiration, but no words came. She saw only visions of suppositions. Maybe M gave N the menu. Maybe when M took Cs order, C made a pass at her and she slapped his hand away, telling him she wasn’t on the menu. Suddenly Araceli had a sense of what was said and done.
#
N kept his nose buried in his menu, forcing M to address him first.
“What’ll you have?” M asked. She was pleased by his rugged good looks. He had massive shoulders, and a muscular chest tapered up from a slim waist and rows of abdominal muscles that conformed to the shape of his form-fitting tee shirt.. She thought his face looked as if it had been chiseled from a block of seasoned pine. His platinum hair was fashioned into a flat-top hair cut, the sides of which were feathered back into a duck’s tail. His eyes seemed as blue as lapis lazuli, and when he grinned, the gap between his front teeth reminded her of that silly boy on the cover of MAD magazine. She thought that, if she had ever wanted to date a gringo, this would be the one.
N looked up and saw M’s grin. “I don’t know,” he answered. “All I see is this Mexican crap. Got any real food?”
She tilted her head, causing her jet black hair to shift slightly on her shoulder.“Like what?”
“Hamburgers? Cheeseburgers?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Would you let McDonald’s make your tacos? No? Then why would you want us to make your greasy hamburgers?”
He struggled to control his breathing. “What would you suggest?”
“Chicken enchiladas. They’re very tasty.”
He feigned ignorance. “Chicken enchiladas? What are they?”
She frowned and pointed to a plate on a nearby customer’s table. “Cheese, chicken, tortilla, sauce.” He pretended to stare blankly at the enchilada. He even blinked his eyes a few times for effect. “I don’t know,” he said. “Couldn’t you just smoosh together some hamburger meat and bring that out?”
“I can’t do that,” she replied. “Even if I dared to ask, they would fire me on the spot. You wouldn’t want me to get fired, would you?” She batted her eyes, which caused him to blush.
#
Araceli’s inspiration vanished like the flame of a flickering candle in a gust of night wind. She was about to give up and go into the living room when she knew what to write next.
#
After M left, N turned to C and smiled.
“Well?” C said.
Just then, a song by Marty Robbins came up on the jukebox. N exhaled so strongly it was almost a whistle. “That’s her,” he said.
#
Araceli was amazed by what she had written. She had only the vaguest idea who Marty Robbins was, and the only song of his she had any memory of was an old ditty her father used to play on the phonograph. And how did she know about the Marine from Brooklyn who boxed in Cuba? The information was coming too fast for her to ignore.
#
“That’s who?” C asked.
“Wicked Felina,” N said.
When M came back with the food, N reached out for her hand. M started to pull it away but changed her mind. “What are you doing Saturday night?” he said.
“I am washing my hair,” she announced. She pulled her hand away and made a patting gesture toward the back of her head.
“And after that?”
“I am waiting for a dental appointment.” She grinned and pointed to her own perfect white teeth.
“The dentists’ offices don’t open until Monday,” he said.
“That’s why I’m waiting,” she said. “I don’t want to lose my place in line.”
“Wouldn’t you rather go out with me?”
“Listen, Mister. My teeth are very important to me.”
#
When the words stopped flowing, Araceli sat still, as if this would somehow restart the flow of actions and images. After ten minutes, nothing came. She was about to put her notebook back in the chest when she got an inkling of what came next.
#
“So what are you saying?” N asked.
“I don’t date strangers,” M said.
“How could we be strangers? We’ve been talking here for several minutes. Don’t you think we’ve become old friends by now?”
“If that’s true, how come I don’t know your name?”
“Slight mishap.” He extended his hand for a handshake. “My name is N.”
She ignored the hand and made the Sign of the Cross. “Dios mio, Mr. N. How come you don’t know what my name is?”
“Oh, I know what your name is,” he whispered. “You are Wicked Felina.”
#
“Araceli!” Maria called. “Time to set the table!”
“Okay, Mom!” “I’ll be right there!”
She tucked her notebook away in the bottom of the chest and closed the lid.
“I’m not sure,” Araceli said. “But I know it’s not fake.”
“Keep working on it,” the raven said.
When Araceli got home, she went straight to her room. She opened the notebook and wrote.
“Okay, so you’re right, C,” N said. “But I’ll bet I can get her to go out with me.”
#
Later that afternoon, Araceli waited for further inspiration, but no words came. She saw only visions of suppositions. Maybe M gave N the menu. Maybe when M took Cs order, C made a pass at her and she slapped his hand away, telling him she wasn’t on the menu. Suddenly Araceli had a sense of what was said and done.
#
N kept his nose buried in his menu, forcing M to address him first.
“What’ll you have?” M asked. She was pleased by his rugged good looks. He had massive shoulders, and a muscular chest tapered up from a slim waist and rows of abdominal muscles that conformed to the shape of his form-fitting tee shirt.. She thought his face looked as if it had been chiseled from a block of seasoned pine. His platinum hair was fashioned into a flat-top hair cut, the sides of which were feathered back into a duck’s tail. His eyes seemed as blue as lapis lazuli, and when he grinned, the gap between his front teeth reminded her of that silly boy on the cover of MAD magazine. She thought that, if she had ever wanted to date a gringo, this would be the one.
N looked up and saw M’s grin. “I don’t know,” he answered. “All I see is this Mexican crap. Got any real food?”
She tilted her head, causing her jet black hair to shift slightly on her shoulder.“Like what?”
“Hamburgers? Cheeseburgers?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Would you let McDonald’s make your tacos? No? Then why would you want us to make your greasy hamburgers?”
He struggled to control his breathing. “What would you suggest?”
“Chicken enchiladas. They’re very tasty.”
He feigned ignorance. “Chicken enchiladas? What are they?”
She frowned and pointed to a plate on a nearby customer’s table. “Cheese, chicken, tortilla, sauce.” He pretended to stare blankly at the enchilada. He even blinked his eyes a few times for effect. “I don’t know,” he said. “Couldn’t you just smoosh together some hamburger meat and bring that out?”
“I can’t do that,” she replied. “Even if I dared to ask, they would fire me on the spot. You wouldn’t want me to get fired, would you?” She batted her eyes, which caused him to blush.
#
Araceli’s inspiration vanished like the flame of a flickering candle in a gust of night wind. She was about to give up and go into the living room when she knew what to write next.
#
After M left, N turned to C and smiled.
“Well?” C said.
Just then, a song by Marty Robbins came up on the jukebox. N exhaled so strongly it was almost a whistle. “That’s her,” he said.
#
Araceli was amazed by what she had written. She had only the vaguest idea who Marty Robbins was, and the only song of his she had any memory of was an old ditty her father used to play on the phonograph. And how did she know about the Marine from Brooklyn who boxed in Cuba? The information was coming too fast for her to ignore.
#
“That’s who?” C asked.
“Wicked Felina,” N said.
When M came back with the food, N reached out for her hand. M started to pull it away but changed her mind. “What are you doing Saturday night?” he said.
“I am washing my hair,” she announced. She pulled her hand away and made a patting gesture toward the back of her head.
“And after that?”
“I am waiting for a dental appointment.” She grinned and pointed to her own perfect white teeth.
“The dentists’ offices don’t open until Monday,” he said.
“That’s why I’m waiting,” she said. “I don’t want to lose my place in line.”
“Wouldn’t you rather go out with me?”
“Listen, Mister. My teeth are very important to me.”
#
When the words stopped flowing, Araceli sat still, as if this would somehow restart the flow of actions and images. After ten minutes, nothing came. She was about to put her notebook back in the chest when she got an inkling of what came next.
#
“So what are you saying?” N asked.
“I don’t date strangers,” M said.
“How could we be strangers? We’ve been talking here for several minutes. Don’t you think we’ve become old friends by now?”
“If that’s true, how come I don’t know your name?”
“Slight mishap.” He extended his hand for a handshake. “My name is N.”
She ignored the hand and made the Sign of the Cross. “Dios mio, Mr. N. How come you don’t know what my name is?”
“Oh, I know what your name is,” he whispered. “You are Wicked Felina.”
#
“Araceli!” Maria called. “Time to set the table!”
“Okay, Mom!” “I’ll be right there!”
She tucked her notebook away in the bottom of the chest and closed the lid.
Friday, June 18
LA MORENITA, Chapter 17
Araceli sat on the bench near the river. “I’m so angry,” she said.
“Why?” the raven asked.
“I’m invisible. Nobody sees me at home, and nobody sees me at school.”
“How did that come about?” the raven asked.
“I don’t know,” Araceli said. Then she thought. “The teachers just see the way I look, and they ignore me. At home, my mother does exactly what my father tells her to do. Which means fussing over Chad every minute while I sit around like a ghost.”
“Didn’t your mother used to take you and your brother to El Ranchito and buy you Mexican music tapes?”
“She hasn’t done that in years. Only once since she came back from going to that group therapy at the mental health center.”
The raven hunkered down and started to flap her wings.
“Where are you going?” Araceli asked.
“I’ll be right back,” the raven said. “I think better when I’m flying.”
Araceli watched the raven take off. She kept her eye on the bird as it soared skyward and came back around in a loop. Then, just as Araceli expected it to land again, it zoomed off and glided in a lazy, looping arc around Araceli. After circling three times, the raven descended and
came to rest on the back of the bench.
“Your brother is the key,” it said. “You and your brother have to trust each other.”
“My brother doesn’t want to have anything to do with me,” Araceli said. “He’s ashamed to be seen with me or have anybody know that he’s my brother.”
“Then you have only one alternative,” the raven said. “You must use your secret writing to find the answers to all your questions.”
#
Araceli resisted. The idea of writing about the truth without knowing it struck her as absurd. She was also afraid her feelings might be hurt by what she discovered. So, in spite of the raven’s exhortations, she managed to avoid writing the truth until spring during her final year in junior high. That’s when she bought a thick notebook and put a label on the outside cover that read: “Letters to the Raven.”
The first time she wrote in her notebook, she wrote: “My parents fell in love at first sight. They stayed in love and lived happily ever after.” She wanted this to be true, but she didn’t think it was. She crossed it out.
She took the notebook into the living room and sat on the couch, staring at the rush hour traffic through the front window. Maybe she should be more formal, she thought. If she had the gift to see the truth without actually being there, maybe she needed to sound more like John, the Baptist or one of those Old Testament prophets. She wrote: “I, from the Sky Altar, send greetings to you, Raven, and say unto you that the relationship of Norman Schmidt and his future wife, Maria, began in this manner.” She read it out loud and reflected on how stupid it sounded. She closed the notebook and took it to her room. There, she put it underneath the Mexican music
tapes in the bottom of the big chest near the foot of her bed.
The next day she walked down to the jogging path and sat on the bench facing the river. She held the notebook on her lap as she stared at the Columbia River flowing by. After twenty minutes, she stood up and started walking away. Hearing a voice say, “Wait a minute,” she
turned and saw the raven alighting on the back of the bench.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
The raven looked excited. “Is that it? Is that your secret writings?”
Araceli sighed.
“Well, is it?”
Araceli nodded.
“Read to me.”
“No. It makes no sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s silly. And not true. How could I possibly know what happened? Even if I did know what happened, how could I possibly understand what it means?”
“It’s the only way.”
“Do I have to keep scribbling words and scratching them out over and over again? I’m doing that now. And the words still aren’t making any sense.”
“You can’t give up.”
“But it’s so hard!”
“Of course it’s hard. What did you expect? Write boldly, and the truth will be revealed.” Without saying another word, the raven flapped her wings and flew off.
Later that day, Araceli lay on her bed and considered her parents. Although the sounds of a nearby ticking clock and noises from the street attempted to intrude on her consciousness, she heard only a deafening silence. Write boldly and the truth will be revealed, the raven had told
her. Nobody else had ever warned her that writing takes courage. She thought about what would happen if her parents found her notebook, so she disguised the identity of her father and mother by calling them ‘N’ and ‘M’. She sat up and wrote: “N came to the place with his lunch
bucket. M brought people their food.” She stopped. If N was going to eat the food that was made at that place, why would he bring a lunch bucket? The size of her handwriting also bothered her. It was too big, too readable. She scratched it out and wrote smaller. “N came to the place and waited for a table. M came out to greet him.” She scribbled over everything in disgust. She must find the truth, she thought. La verdad. La verdad. The words droned in her consciousness like the pulsing of a Mexican accordion. She was frightened by the challenge, but she knew the
raven was right. If she had the courage to search for it, the truth could rise like a hot air balloon in the sky.
The next day she went to the river and read aloud to the raven. When she heard herself, she thought the words sounded hollow and inaccurate.
The raven asked her, “Do you think that’s what happened?”
“No,” she said.
“Go back and work on it. And when you’re sure you have written the truth, come back.”
Araceli wrote furiously for the next three months, scribbling words and phrases, then scratching these out and writing new ones. Occasionally, she felt a flash of recognition and knew she may have stumbled onto something that resembled some small portion of la verdad. She felt
like a prospector, fumbling in murky waters, getting excited over the tiniest flakes and nuggets. On rare occasions, she felt minuscule bursts of inspiration, but these bursts came only after struggling mightily. When she didn’t struggle, her words seemed pedestrian and her facts bogus.
The best words and images came when she got so frustrated she almost gave up. Whenever that happened, she would let go of her thoughts and feelings and wait patiently. Eventually, glimpses of specific events and details did flicker in her mind.
One cold day in March, Araceli bundled herself up and went down to the river. Immediately, the raven appeared. “What do you have for me today?” she asked.
Araceli opened her notebook and read:
Dear Raven:
Maybe N got into an argument with the other guys at work, telling them the most beautiful girls in the world had fair skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes. After all, that’s what he believed. Maybe he even made a bet about it. Or maybe it was N’s friend, C, who told him the most beautiful girl in the world worked at a cantina just outside San Antonio. Anyway, N and his buddies from the construction site came to this little place called El Rincón to eat lunch. N forced himself to act casual the first time he saw M and tried to perform an objective inventory of her features. Her dark skin, high cheekbones, and full lips; her slightly asymmetrical face, the
left nostril slightly lower and smaller than the right one; her expressive black eyes that seemed too large for her face. Imperfect when viewed one at a time, all of these features together drew him, like a powerful force that made his heart wobble in his chest and forced his eyes to stare directly into hers.
N already had come to the conclusion that, in America—the Land of the Free—people should be able to do whatever they damn well please. While stationed at the Marine Barracks in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, he met an ex-Golden Gloves boxer, a black Marine from Brooklyn. During the only sparring match they ever had, the Marine from Brooklyn knocked out N after just ten seconds with a powerful right-hand lead followed by a flurry of punches that brought him to the floor and rendered him unconscious. After regaining consciousness, N asked the blackMarine to teach him some moves.
The black Marine was a talented sketch artist who carried a sketchbook and colored pencils everywhere he went. During a break from one of N’s boxing lessons, N grabbed the sketchbook and paged through it, chancing upon the drawing of a woman’s crotch. The drawing showed all the parts of a blonde woman’s vagina. When N blushed at the sight, the Marine fromBrooklyn threw his head back and roared with laughter. “What made your face so red, white boy?”
After stammering a bit, N replied, “You must’ve been real close to it if you could draw it that good.”
That made the black Marine laugh even harder.
“I don’t think people of different races should get involved with each other,” N said.
“Even in a free country?” the black Marine asked. “After all, the U.S. is not supposed to be like South Africa.” He paused and then said, “Or is it?”
N remembered that the first time he saw a white woman with a black man. It was in front of the Greyhound station in San Antonio late one night. The two of them were huddled so close together they appeared to be sharing the same body as the black man ran his hands all over the woman’s chest and stomach. When N saw this, his face flushed a bright crimson and his eyes burned with anger. “Even here,” he told the black Marine. “It’s not right.”
“What’s not right?” said the black Marine. “Is either one of them inflicting pain on the other? If the two of them aren’t complaining, how is it anybody else’s business?”
“I don’t think God wants the races to intermingle like that,” N had answered.
“How the hell do you know what God wants?” the black Marine said. “Did God have a private conversation with you, like in a burning bush or something? Or maybe you can tell me where He said so in The Bible?”
N didn’t have an answer but he thought the Bible forbade it.
Now he was staring at a woman from a different race who totally captivated him, and he thought about what that black Marine said. If the two people involved aren’t complaining, why should anyone else care? “Is that her?” he whispered to C. C nodded. After a few seconds, N corrected his gawk and fixed his gaze directly in front of himself.
“Why?” the raven asked.
“I’m invisible. Nobody sees me at home, and nobody sees me at school.”
“How did that come about?” the raven asked.
“I don’t know,” Araceli said. Then she thought. “The teachers just see the way I look, and they ignore me. At home, my mother does exactly what my father tells her to do. Which means fussing over Chad every minute while I sit around like a ghost.”
“Didn’t your mother used to take you and your brother to El Ranchito and buy you Mexican music tapes?”
“She hasn’t done that in years. Only once since she came back from going to that group therapy at the mental health center.”
The raven hunkered down and started to flap her wings.
“Where are you going?” Araceli asked.
“I’ll be right back,” the raven said. “I think better when I’m flying.”
Araceli watched the raven take off. She kept her eye on the bird as it soared skyward and came back around in a loop. Then, just as Araceli expected it to land again, it zoomed off and glided in a lazy, looping arc around Araceli. After circling three times, the raven descended and
came to rest on the back of the bench.
“Your brother is the key,” it said. “You and your brother have to trust each other.”
“My brother doesn’t want to have anything to do with me,” Araceli said. “He’s ashamed to be seen with me or have anybody know that he’s my brother.”
“Then you have only one alternative,” the raven said. “You must use your secret writing to find the answers to all your questions.”
#
Araceli resisted. The idea of writing about the truth without knowing it struck her as absurd. She was also afraid her feelings might be hurt by what she discovered. So, in spite of the raven’s exhortations, she managed to avoid writing the truth until spring during her final year in junior high. That’s when she bought a thick notebook and put a label on the outside cover that read: “Letters to the Raven.”
The first time she wrote in her notebook, she wrote: “My parents fell in love at first sight. They stayed in love and lived happily ever after.” She wanted this to be true, but she didn’t think it was. She crossed it out.
She took the notebook into the living room and sat on the couch, staring at the rush hour traffic through the front window. Maybe she should be more formal, she thought. If she had the gift to see the truth without actually being there, maybe she needed to sound more like John, the Baptist or one of those Old Testament prophets. She wrote: “I, from the Sky Altar, send greetings to you, Raven, and say unto you that the relationship of Norman Schmidt and his future wife, Maria, began in this manner.” She read it out loud and reflected on how stupid it sounded. She closed the notebook and took it to her room. There, she put it underneath the Mexican music
tapes in the bottom of the big chest near the foot of her bed.
The next day she walked down to the jogging path and sat on the bench facing the river. She held the notebook on her lap as she stared at the Columbia River flowing by. After twenty minutes, she stood up and started walking away. Hearing a voice say, “Wait a minute,” she
turned and saw the raven alighting on the back of the bench.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
The raven looked excited. “Is that it? Is that your secret writings?”
Araceli sighed.
“Well, is it?”
Araceli nodded.
“Read to me.”
“No. It makes no sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s silly. And not true. How could I possibly know what happened? Even if I did know what happened, how could I possibly understand what it means?”
“It’s the only way.”
“Do I have to keep scribbling words and scratching them out over and over again? I’m doing that now. And the words still aren’t making any sense.”
“You can’t give up.”
“But it’s so hard!”
“Of course it’s hard. What did you expect? Write boldly, and the truth will be revealed.” Without saying another word, the raven flapped her wings and flew off.
Later that day, Araceli lay on her bed and considered her parents. Although the sounds of a nearby ticking clock and noises from the street attempted to intrude on her consciousness, she heard only a deafening silence. Write boldly and the truth will be revealed, the raven had told
her. Nobody else had ever warned her that writing takes courage. She thought about what would happen if her parents found her notebook, so she disguised the identity of her father and mother by calling them ‘N’ and ‘M’. She sat up and wrote: “N came to the place with his lunch
bucket. M brought people their food.” She stopped. If N was going to eat the food that was made at that place, why would he bring a lunch bucket? The size of her handwriting also bothered her. It was too big, too readable. She scratched it out and wrote smaller. “N came to the place and waited for a table. M came out to greet him.” She scribbled over everything in disgust. She must find the truth, she thought. La verdad. La verdad. The words droned in her consciousness like the pulsing of a Mexican accordion. She was frightened by the challenge, but she knew the
raven was right. If she had the courage to search for it, the truth could rise like a hot air balloon in the sky.
The next day she went to the river and read aloud to the raven. When she heard herself, she thought the words sounded hollow and inaccurate.
The raven asked her, “Do you think that’s what happened?”
“No,” she said.
“Go back and work on it. And when you’re sure you have written the truth, come back.”
Araceli wrote furiously for the next three months, scribbling words and phrases, then scratching these out and writing new ones. Occasionally, she felt a flash of recognition and knew she may have stumbled onto something that resembled some small portion of la verdad. She felt
like a prospector, fumbling in murky waters, getting excited over the tiniest flakes and nuggets. On rare occasions, she felt minuscule bursts of inspiration, but these bursts came only after struggling mightily. When she didn’t struggle, her words seemed pedestrian and her facts bogus.
The best words and images came when she got so frustrated she almost gave up. Whenever that happened, she would let go of her thoughts and feelings and wait patiently. Eventually, glimpses of specific events and details did flicker in her mind.
One cold day in March, Araceli bundled herself up and went down to the river. Immediately, the raven appeared. “What do you have for me today?” she asked.
Araceli opened her notebook and read:
Dear Raven:
Maybe N got into an argument with the other guys at work, telling them the most beautiful girls in the world had fair skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes. After all, that’s what he believed. Maybe he even made a bet about it. Or maybe it was N’s friend, C, who told him the most beautiful girl in the world worked at a cantina just outside San Antonio. Anyway, N and his buddies from the construction site came to this little place called El Rincón to eat lunch. N forced himself to act casual the first time he saw M and tried to perform an objective inventory of her features. Her dark skin, high cheekbones, and full lips; her slightly asymmetrical face, the
left nostril slightly lower and smaller than the right one; her expressive black eyes that seemed too large for her face. Imperfect when viewed one at a time, all of these features together drew him, like a powerful force that made his heart wobble in his chest and forced his eyes to stare directly into hers.
N already had come to the conclusion that, in America—the Land of the Free—people should be able to do whatever they damn well please. While stationed at the Marine Barracks in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, he met an ex-Golden Gloves boxer, a black Marine from Brooklyn. During the only sparring match they ever had, the Marine from Brooklyn knocked out N after just ten seconds with a powerful right-hand lead followed by a flurry of punches that brought him to the floor and rendered him unconscious. After regaining consciousness, N asked the blackMarine to teach him some moves.
The black Marine was a talented sketch artist who carried a sketchbook and colored pencils everywhere he went. During a break from one of N’s boxing lessons, N grabbed the sketchbook and paged through it, chancing upon the drawing of a woman’s crotch. The drawing showed all the parts of a blonde woman’s vagina. When N blushed at the sight, the Marine fromBrooklyn threw his head back and roared with laughter. “What made your face so red, white boy?”
After stammering a bit, N replied, “You must’ve been real close to it if you could draw it that good.”
That made the black Marine laugh even harder.
“I don’t think people of different races should get involved with each other,” N said.
“Even in a free country?” the black Marine asked. “After all, the U.S. is not supposed to be like South Africa.” He paused and then said, “Or is it?”
N remembered that the first time he saw a white woman with a black man. It was in front of the Greyhound station in San Antonio late one night. The two of them were huddled so close together they appeared to be sharing the same body as the black man ran his hands all over the woman’s chest and stomach. When N saw this, his face flushed a bright crimson and his eyes burned with anger. “Even here,” he told the black Marine. “It’s not right.”
“What’s not right?” said the black Marine. “Is either one of them inflicting pain on the other? If the two of them aren’t complaining, how is it anybody else’s business?”
“I don’t think God wants the races to intermingle like that,” N had answered.
“How the hell do you know what God wants?” the black Marine said. “Did God have a private conversation with you, like in a burning bush or something? Or maybe you can tell me where He said so in The Bible?”
N didn’t have an answer but he thought the Bible forbade it.
Now he was staring at a woman from a different race who totally captivated him, and he thought about what that black Marine said. If the two people involved aren’t complaining, why should anyone else care? “Is that her?” he whispered to C. C nodded. After a few seconds, N corrected his gawk and fixed his gaze directly in front of himself.
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