ABSTRACT

AN EXPERIMENT IN DISORDER

This collection of short stories will focus on the effect of history, memory, and oral traditions on cultural identity but will also focus on identity in general. The intent of this book is to examine identity through generations and time. The collection will introduce the Olivera family and follow with a few stories of this family. The collection will infuse magical realism and introduce the oral tradition of “The People that Drift,” who appear on several occasions and throughout the collection. The characters battle with inclusion and exclusion, an in-betweeness that allows them to wonder about their place. The characters struggle with the issue of social acceptance and contradiction from the hierarchy of power that, at times, accepts their culture but can dismiss it just as easily. The characters question their history, memory, and oral traditions and wonder if what they’ve heard from their culture and traditions are truthful and not based on lies. Does a culture, throughout their history, memory, and oral traditions, tell lies in order to survive, thus, effecting identity?

Rolando Paez May 2013

AN EXPERIMENT IN DISORDER

by Rolando Paez

A thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing in the College of Arts and Humanities California State University, Fresno May 2013 APPROVED For the Department of English:

We, the undersigned, certify that the thesis of the following student meets the required standards of scholarship, format, and style of the university and the student's graduate degree program for the awarding of the master's degree.

Rolando Paez Thesis Author

Alex Espinoza (Chair) English

Randa Jarrar English

Yolanda Doub Modern and Classical Languages and Literatures

For the University Graduate Committee:

Dean, Division of Graduate Studies AUTHORIZATION FOR REPRODUCTION OF MASTER’S THESIS

I grant permission for the reproduction of this thesis in part or in its entirety without further authorization from me, on the condition that the person or agency requesting reproduction absorbs the cost and provides proper acknowledgment of authorship.

X Permission to reproduce this thesis in part or in its entirety must be obtained from me.

Signature of thesis author: ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank my mother and father and brothers and sisters for their years of understanding and support. I would also like to thank Beatriz for being by my side. Thank you. TABLE OF CONTENTS Page

THE FLOATING LAND ...... 1

YA YA’S DAY ...... 49

CORN OR FLOUR TORTILLAS ...... 58

CHILD OF THE FOG ...... 67

SHEILA ...... 75

WHAT MEDICINE ...... 81

A PLACE CALLED HEAVEN ...... 92

DOMINGO ...... 100

THEY OPENED MY EYES TO THE TRUTH ...... 112

ICARUS LIVES ...... 127

I LEFT MY SUNGLASSES IN SOLEDAD ...... 139

THE FLOATING LAND

The land spoke to Julian. In the days and weeks of traveling, he walked upon the fertile soil, drank cold, luscious water from its rivers, and when he looked upon the vast horizon he could see God’s indelible etchings upon the distant mountaintop. The reports of this land didn’t do justice to what lay before his eyes. Forests, meadows, deserts intermingled into one and then without notice, he would find himself alone with one. The mind is a powerful thing, Julian thought. Every night, he heard coyotes and wolves speak and in their cries, a distinct voice emerged. The voice told him, the land belonged to the strong and those that cared for the land would never possess the land. “Where do you go, Julian?” the coyote asked. The question came in the night and hearing the question, Julian placed more wood on his fire. “He goes to seek his place,” the wolf answered. “The white man has come. He will take all away leaving our brothers, the guardians of the land, to toil for his scraps.” The coyote and the wolf agreed with each other, and raising their heads gazed upon the moon whose specks of light reflected off their coats. Julian put more wood on the fire and in time, the voice no longer questioned him. One day, Julian looked down on a valley that teemed with cattle and horsemen. He also noticed people walking around the cattle; they didn’t have horses, yet they followed the gestures of the horsemen. He was aware that many acres were still occupied by the Mexicans. Julian never met a Mexican and didn’t know what to expect. He had seen Indians and pictured the Mexicans as the same. Both had brown skin and were conquered, what else was there to know? The Indians called him a white man, which confused him, because looking in a mirror 2 2 his skin was also brown. Julian, the white man, came down the hill and entered the brown valley. The white man found the Mexicans in the places that they should be. He found them riding horses across the land, tilling and moving the dirt. Sweat dripping into the men’s eyes and the women working just as hard. The children worked and played with dirty hands made by the soil. The white man found them in the orchards picking fruit from their trees. Their dark brown skin shinned in the day’s heat. In New York City, he once saw a Bronze statue in a museum. He remembered the attendant’s warning, do not touch. He stared at the statue, a glimmer of light reflected off the skin revealing what he described as noble. The same glimmer reflected off the skin of the Mexicans. He watched for a moment and listened to the sound of their voices. A strange mixture of happiness and anger emanated from their throats and tongues, he didn’t know whether the apparent mixture of emotions was aimed at him. He continued on, always, always looking at the land. A variable paradise surrounded him. The Mexicans had claimed this land but the war was over and they lost. The Americans would come as locust to cover the land with a ravenous appetite. Soon, the land would overflow with bands of wagons, horses, and cattle. Searching for land and water to survive, they would accelerate their desire for more, more water, more land, more, more, and more. Never stopping until every corner of California had been claimed. He smiled acknowledging his fortune at having first claim. Still, as he rode past the families, working the land, a hint of sadness touched his heart for the noble savages and the land that welcomed their familiar touch. The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo had given the right for colonization to the Americans. It allowed the American to lay claim to an already claimed land. The treaty indicated that the existing land owners would not lose what was theirs, and 3 3 that they would have the same rights as any citizen of the United States. There were many wealthy Mexicans who lived on enormous tracts of land and their haciendas, their ranchos were equal to any southern plantation or northern mansion. The white man, in two days of travel, was astonished with the sheer volume of the property owned by Olivera. He passed acreage filled with timber, water, and good cattle grazing pastures. He envied what the Mexicans created. Given time, he would have more than these local immigrants. One of the Mexicans approached the white man. The Mexican or Indian, their appearances similar to the dirt encrusted stranger that to confuse the two bordered on believable. He noticed the careful strides the brown man took, inching his way forward with the caution of a coyote. The two men stared at each other waiting for the other to initiate the next move. The white man climbed off his horse and waited with the reins in one hand and the other hand on his gun. The horse bowed his head, reaching out to the Mexican as he moved closer. The white man in astonishment moved the horse away from the Mexican or Indian. The horse resisted and then gave way to the pull of his master. “It is a beautiful animal you have, senor,” the brown man said. Julian hesitated, unsure if his ears heard English. The man in front of him was small in stature, but sturdy looking. The surprise was not in the appearance of the brown skin, but in that the man spoke English. Savages did not speak English, he thought. “You speak English?” “Yes, I speak your language. Are you lost senor?” The white man’s silence intrigued the Mexican. The white man didn’t say a word and looking over the landscape, he smiled. 4 4

“This is good land. There is grass for cattle, there seems to be plenty of water for everyone. And there is plenty of deer and other animals.” His words were not directed at the brown man, in front of him, rather, he spoke to someone or something that wasn’t there. “Senor, the land belongs to my jefe. He would be glad to offer you some food and shelter for the night. It is not far from here, maybe a mile. We can walk if your horse is tired.” Julian, noticing the sun caressing the surrounding mountains, accepted the offer and grabbing the reins began to walk beside the brown man. The Mexican’s horse was well muscled and walked with assurance and pride; his tale swatted away the flies with ease. With each step, the white man’s stained, black boots walked on dirt and old cragged ancient rocks that in the fading sunlight offered a small beauty in the overwhelming magnificence of the expanding land. Trees aligned their route, there were many different kinds of trees that, as he imagined, did not stand in the way of the Mexicans progress. As they neared the house of the jefe, the name used by the brown man walking beside him, Julian became the object of curiosity. Sideway glances were prevalent from the people and children that ran around the two men. The children addressed the brown man. They spoke so fast that his mind no longer followed the words, his hand slid down to his gun, caressing the leather. The children were not aware of the movements of the man’s hands, they continued their non-stop barrage. The words were noise to Julian, and as the children’s tongues spewed out gibberish that hovered in the air, it surrounded the two men and the only word he understood was senor. One boy touched his gun. He didn’t notice the boy by his side and continued to walk his horse. Inspired by his bravery, the other boys decided to make a game out of touching his gun. Each time one of the boys touched the gun, the boys laughed. 5 5

He wasn’t sure why the children were laughing; he had no idea and assumed the laughter was a nervous reaction. Even as a younger man, his height had been intimidating. People mistook him for being older. He was six foot tall at fourteen and stood a foot taller than many of the adults. As they approached the big house, the boys dispersed and became quiet. No longer hearing the chaotic voices of the children, Julian eased his stride and loosened his grip on the reins. “There it is senor, the house of my jefe. I will take you to meet him.” The house was large with many things that Julian reasoned were not from this land. Every window, of the big house, was encased in glass and the porch wrapped around half of the house, from the front to the sides. A few other buildings decorated the plot. A huge barn stood left of the main house and small buildings, living quarters, he thought, were scattered to the right. The smaller buildings didn’t have glass in their windows; the windows were made of wood with small slits carved out. The main house teemed with life. Two children played in front of the house. Watching them play was an older man with dark hair and white sideburns. A younger woman sat next to the man. The Mexican stopped in front of the porch steps and waited. The older man eased out of his chair, telling the children something in Spanish. The woman led the children inside. As the men spoke, Julian’s hand moved to his side. The older man raised his voice and Julian understood the tone. He was familiar with that emphasis, a tone that his own father used on several occasions. For a moment, the only sound that Julian heard was the sound of the young boy’s laughter. The older man’s steps were light, soft movements of confidence and grace that Julian had observed back east. Certain men moved with a privilege that he never understood, and seeing the same movements in the older man confounded him. They stood face to face. Julian realized that the older man was taller. The 6 6 older man’s brown eyes peered with a relentless gaze. If he didn’t know better, the old man could see inside of him. The gaze, he felt, was drawing out bits and pieces of his past. His thoughts flashed behind his eyes. He tried to hide them in the back of his mind, in the far corner, Julian placed the painful ones, the tortured memories that move beyond experience and memory, in the hope that the old man’s search failed. The other man asked if he could take his horse. Before he could answer, the horses were gone. The old man’s eyes were now on the animals. “That is a nice horse, very handsome beast.” He turned and faced Julian. “Do you speak English?” “Yes, yes I do, but how is it that you do?” Laughing, the older man moved up the porch and sat down. He motioned to the chair beside him; still laughing, he asked his name. “My name is Julian, Julian Cast.” “Bienvenidos, Julian, my name is Francisco Olivera and this is my ranch. Olivera stretched out his hand, indicating that all Julian could see was his. Julian listened as Francisco Olivera relayed the history of his family, going back generations. “This land is mine, but I still find Mexico in my blood. When my blood spills on this soil, I see and feel Mexico, entiendes? Mexico is a contradiction. A land that forges its people with hardships and prideful boasts and amalgamations of memories, she cries when she is alone.” When Francisco Olivera finished his recollections, he inquired about Julian’s intentions. The sun was gone, sinking behind the mountains strong shoulders. Francisco led the way into the house. People appeared from nowhere, they moved with purpose as if there had never been a visitor entering the home. Julian stood on 7 7 a rug full of colors and symbols. After many weeks of riding, his clothes no longer hung on his frame, rather, his clothes clung to his skin, not by threads, but by the weeks of dirt and grime. Francisco, sensing Julian’s hesitation, motioned toward an unassuming door and a short, wrinkled skin woman appeared. Francisco’s words were sharp and the woman motioned for Julian to follow. The woman led him to a room with a bed and a small desk along the wall. The woman filled the wash basin, Julian tried to thank her, but she scampered out before the words were formed. The touch of the cold water awakened his skin. The woman had placed a bar of soap on top of a towel; the scent of flowers entered his nose. He smelled the soap and tried to picture the flowers. He imagined the full bloom of color in the corner of the room. Shadow flowers filled the corner of the wall, next to the desk. Rubbing his eyes, the flowers didn’t disappear. Instead, they thrived in the dark corner to Julian’s amazement. Compared to the main house, the room’s impression served no purpose to the main body, like a dry, shriveled limb, the room merely existed. Hearing whispers on the other side of the door, Julian turned toward the sound. The voices spoke in Spanish, mumbled words that even if he did speak the language, he still wouldn’t understand what was being said. Cracking the door, Julian peered out, two men stood outside his door. The men looked toward the door, unsure if they saw him; Julian smiled and whispered, “Won’t be long now boys.” He closed the door, searching the room for the flowers. They were gone as well as the scent. Julian placed his hands in front of his body and traced the outline of the bouquet. His hands were now in front of him. He held the flowers with tenderness, then, the word senor dissipated what was in front of him. He fell to his knees and his hands hit the floor with a thud. Before he left the room, he looked for the flowers, but they were no longer there. 8 8

Francisco’s wife lit a candle, and for a few moments the flame flickered, in and out, as if the flame couldn’t decide whether to give its full light or a mere twinkle. The flame steadied and she knelt in front of it. As she prayed for guidance from the Virgin Mother, she thought of the white man. Surely, his coming was no coincidence. “Mother of God please protect us from harm. Protect us from this white man who has come to our land.” She crossed her upper body and kissed her fingers. The Indians were afraid of Francisco Olivera, the Don to the servants. The servants knew the weight of his voice and when the Don called for his wife, they rushed to her. “Si, quien es. “Don Francisco, se busca Senora.” “Que? After all this time and you people still cannot speak Spanish.” She bowed her head without a sound. “Bueno, ay voy.” The servant noticed a blanket across a chair, as if someone had just moved out of the chair. Something familiar was in the cloth. It was a time before the Mexicans, a time of the hunting parties, a time when the wolf, his brother, shared what he had. Now, the wolf stayed away, afraid of becoming an unfamiliar sound among the new voices. When she entered the dining room, Don Francisco’s wife noticed the young white man’s stance, he stood with nervous legs, rocking on his heels, and as she sat down he acknowledge her with a courteous nod. Don Francisco introduced his wife. Introducing her in English, Julian was amazed at how well the Don spoke, if fact, he was surprised anyone spoke English and wondered how they learned the language. They sat down and the Don and his wife whispered to each other. 9 9

“Sorry, senor, but my wife –she doesn’t speak English.” “That’s quite all right. I don’t speak Spanish.” “Allow me to introduce my wife; this senor is La Senora Marie De Luz Olivera, Marie presento el Senor Julian Cast.” “Encantado Senor.” “She is happy to meet you.” “Likewise.” Don Francisco sat down and his wife followed his lead. Two servants appeared from the back room, each carrying a pot of food. The servants placed the food on the table and began to serve. Julian thanked the servants, as they dished the food on the white plates with thin blue lines. He wasn’t sure of the food, but it smelled good, and after days and weeks of eating birds, rabbits, and anything that crawled or ran, the smell of whatever lay in front of him was intoxicating. Don Francisco waved off the servants and they backed out of the room with their heads lowered, eyes to the ground. Never had Julian been in a house or sat at a table with servants, he wasn’t sure what was next. His instinct was to grab the food with bare hands and put as much as possible into his mouth. His mother never taught him or his brother proper table manners, and for most of his life he ate with such an energetic intensity that people commented with disgust, and if people were unfortunate to sit beside him, they moved away without finishing the meal. That was fine by Julian, he got plenty of extra food in his life and he wasn’t shy about eating, and if he was hungry, he ate. But now, sitting at the Don’ Francisco’s table, he waited for a signal, some form of gesture that indicated it was okay to eat. The Don picked up his spoon and heaped a mound of beef and beans into his mouth. When he put down the spoon, he seized a tortilla. His eyes looked in the direction of Julian; he awkwardly held the spoon in one hand and the tortilla in 10 10 another, shuffling food in his mouth with the motion of a train. Marie De Luz observed her husband and the stranger, Julian. She watched the two men eat without seeming to breath or chew. She put a spoonful of food into her mouth and realized she wasn’t hungry. “I am not hungry amor.” Her voice drowned in the sounds of lips smacking and jaws chewing as the two men ate. She drank her wine. “I am done.” The Don shook his head in approval and Marie De Luz left the table. She listened to the sound of the evening, birds sang, insects interjected their sounds and the distant voices of unseen animals mingled into the chaotic symphony. It was as if the animals were aware of something, she was sure of the animals’ conversation and what she felt for weeks before the appearance of Julian Cast. Marie wasn’t sure if his name was real, Julian Cast, people change their names for many reasons, to avoid the law, to start a new life, to disappear from the past. She decided a walk would ease her mind and felt comfort in the softness of the air. How she longed for the days when her husband courted and acted with his best behavior. Francisco was never a nice man, but he wasn’t mean, at least in the first years of their marriage. He brought her to this land with the hope of a fresh start, “A new life,” as he said countless times, a life far away from Mexico’s prying eyes. The air was cool and a breeze caressed her arms, embracing her with gentle fingertips, and she did not shiver. Her thoughts returned to the appearance of Senor Cast, and though his language intrigued her, she thought that he or any other white man would never own the land. The land belonged to her people and their children and their children’s children. Marie De Luz remembered the old men and 11 11 women of her village and the stories they recounted about the past and future of the people. The old women spoke of Mexico and the spirits that watched and protected them from all invaders, outside and within. She had seen people talk to the wind and question the air, yet she never heard any response. When Marie’s mother told tales of flying spirits, her father laughed and pointed his finger at his wife and said, “Palabras locas,” then took his daughters’ hands and wiped dirt on them. “Don’t listen to your mother and all her crazy talk. She believes that whatever happens, we are protected by the spirits.” “Apa, you don’t believe the stories? You don’t believe the spirits? Ama, said the spirits will always protect us, no matter where we go.” “Her faith, like our people, is strong. But belief is no match for the truth. Look around you mija. Things and times are changing before our eyes. We have survived because the strength of will flows through our veins, as it flowed through our ancestors. The dirt on your hands is the real truth. You can feel it, taste it, and when the rains come you can smell it. That’s the truth. What your mother believes are lies, lies that do not help our people move forward. These stories keep us in place.” “I have seen these spirits. Doesn’t that make them true?” “Real yes, truthful no.” As Marie De Luz continued her walk, she came to the worker’s quarters. She heard the sound of children and the trail of shouts that followed them. The workers greeted her with respect and became silent when she neared. Marie turned to walk back to the main house when she saw something that intrigued her. The stories from the elders had come to life. She saw wispy human- like shapes around some of the workers as they sat for an evening meal. Some of the workers 12 12 appeared in conversation with whatever it was that hovered without effort. She moved into the darkness and observed the workers laugh and carry on as if talking to an old friend. They didn’t seem bothered or disturbed by the floating shapes. She couldn’t find a better description for what lay before her eyes, yet she couldn’t turn away and when the shapes faded from her vision, she stood, listening to the laughter of the workers who gave no indication of fear. She turned around and walked back to the main house. The hairs on her arms were no longer caressed by the wind, but raised and stood as if waiting to exhale. As she neared the main house, she heard the door close and her husband and the white man sat on the porch. Her steps slowed to a shuffle and without any visual confirmation, she knew her husband’s cough. Francisco had a way of coughing that many who heard called unusual. He coughed three times and then sucked air into his lungs and then sneezed. The image of what she had witnessed moments before assaulted her thoughts. “The stories are true,” she said to no in particular. May be the birds or the stars had answers; she stood and listened to the night, as she gazed at the stars. The birds were silent and the stars gave their brightness in between the clouds. As she approached the men on the porch, a thin, light mist hovered around the porch. Julian, the white man, didn’t notice and if he did, he gave no indication through his facial or body movement. Her husband’s demeanor suggested he was unaware of the mist-like shape. He was in deep conversation with Julian. When her foot touched the last porch step, Francisco and Julian stood and the mist could no longer be seen. Marie De Luz eyes searched the area as she greeted the men, her husband’s gaze made her nervous and cautious. “Ah, mi esposa, you look frightened. Is everything fine?” “Si, estoy bien.” 13 13

“Yes, she looks as if something spooked her.” “Senor Cast, my wife believes in many things that the night brings alive. Stories, fables, myths of our youth that are told by a generation that hangs on to such ideas as ghosts and other things of that nature.” Julian nodded his head in agreement. Marie De Luz bid her husband goodnight and without knowing their language, Julian was aware that something had frightened her and she looked to her husband for comfort. Don Francisco kissed his wife on the forehead and said goodnight to his wife. “What do you think spooked her out there? Might be some animal that’s prowling the area.” “My wife is a strong woman and is not afraid of animals. She left her home to come with me to this land to create a home for me and my children. It is curious, but not unusual, for a woman to miss her family when she is alone in her thoughts. I am sure that is all it is. This is our land, and there is nothing to fear in the darkness that isn’t in the light.” Julian hesitated for a moment. He wanted to find the right words, words that wouldn’t make the Don angry. He needed the man on his side in order to succeed. “As you are well aware of Mr. Olivera, the war is over and Mexico lost. This is now the territory of the United States.” “Yes, I am aware, but the land is still mine according to the treaty.” “Agreed, still, word has reached back east of the vast opportunity the land offers and soon there will be many people coming this way.” Don Francisco studied Julian. He looked into the man’s eyes and knew what he said was true. There would be many people coming into the territory and not only the territory but coming to his land. During the war he did business with 14 14 both sides. He wanted to stay neutral and hoped that the two sides would both go away and let the people govern their own territories as they had done for years. Though the Americans had won the war, Francisco Olivera retained his community, the people’s way, his way. He couldn’t accept his people adjusting to roles that did not fit the image of a Mexican. In recent trips to other parts of California, he witnessed the beginning influences of the American way. The Mexicans he remembered were strong in their convictions and they were smart and ambitious. They weren’t the dumb, childish, buffoons that he witnessed in some of the new emerging ranches and neighboring regions. He wouldn’t let Julian or any other white man take away what he had accomplished with forceful intentions or quiet gestures. “What are you doing here? Are you a scout for an incoming party?” “No, I come here alone. I have traveled out west to make my fortune and like you to create my own life. I scout for me and I like the land, your land, and I would like to buy a piece of it from you.” Don Francisco sat silent and then jumped to his feet. He paced up and down the porch with his hands behind his back. He stared out into the darkness as if waiting to hear a voice. Julian thought that he searched for the strange mist that appeared before. In his travels, Julian had seen strange things and heard many stories of disbelief. Sleeping under the stars, some nights, Julian heard voices that came from nowhere. He didn’t believe in all the stories that he heard but he also understood that nothing just happens. As the Don paced, the mist like form emerged from the darkness, shadowing the movements of the Don. The shapes took form, human silhouettes materialized before Julian’s eyes. The Don continued to stare out into the night, unaware of the presence. Don Francisco’s 15 15 voice slit the silence and Julian was about to respond when he realized Don Francisco was speaking to the human like figures. “Si yo se. Pero, pero, no es la verda.” Francisco Olivera knew the shapes and the stories well. The first time he saw them was beside the river where he fished. “Well, I guess the stories are true. What do you want with me; I don’t believe in silly fables.” The shapes were distinct in their human form. Francisco recognized arms, legs, and the roundness of human skulls. He wasn’t afraid because whether he believed or not, these things were just stories and stories cannot harm anyone. He said a silent prayer. He wondered if what floated before his eyes came from God. “We are the ones that the people speak of, the ones who are shouts and whispers among the people.” “What do you want with me? I have no need for such silly things. My voice is my own.” “We have been with your people for generations and we protect the people.” “Protect them from what? Whenever there is a fight or a battle many of our people die. When the people go to sleep hungry, where is your protection? Go away; tell your lies to the naïve.” “Francisco, truth comes in many ways. For you truth will come in a different shape with a shred of color. People will come to respect and fear you because of your place in life. Protection also comes in many forms.” Francisco became angry, dismissing the figures. The people’s beliefs were admirable but foolish. He remembered a time of hunger, a time when the sadness in his father’s eyes remained a constant truth. When he asked his father why the 16 16 patron doesn’t share his food, his father didn’t have an answer and warned Francisco of his place. He couldn’t understand why. Their skin and hair color were the same and they spoke the same language. Yet, there was a difference which Francisco would come to know later in his life. Francisco moved away from the people that float, the name his grandmother used when telling one of her stories. His grandmother referred to them with reverence. She would cross her shoulders and kiss her fingertips whenever she spoke of the people that drift. As he walked away, the forms continued to speak of his people’s greatness and their culture’s strength. Julian watched the Don pace back and forth, and when he stopped, two noticeable figures drifted by his side. The Don stared out into the darkness without any noticeable change in his demeanor. Julian sat down, wondering if the man was crazy. But he saw the shapes, hovering around the man, and he knew that they were more than just tricks of the weather. When Don Francisco turned around, Julian didn’t realize that Don Francisco was directing his words in his direction. “Senor, Senor Julian, I am speaking to you.” “Forgive me. My trip has exhausted me. I am seeing things.” “What do you mean things?” “Nothing, you’d think me crazy if I told you.” “That is a possibility. Tell me what things you speak of.” Julian was tired. The Don’s stare grew intense and Julian became uncomfortable, he shifted in his seat. He regretted his slip of the tongue. He didn’t want anything to interfere with the chance of purchasing land. If the Don thought he was crazy, and it was possible, whatever trust he hoped to create would vanish. The boards creaked under the weight of the two men, as they moved from one location to another. Julian gazed at Don Francisco’s hands and compared his 17 17 hands with the man that stood before him. The lines on Julian’s hands were encrusted with dirt from many different lands, and the dark lines under his nails told tails of a hard life. A life filled with work and pride, that didn’t allow for entirely clean hands. Don Francisco’s hands were worn and dry, full of lines, wrinkles, and patches of white hair. Julian thought them powerful and wondered what they had seen and done. “You didn’t protect my father. He believed in that nonsense,” Don Francisco said. “Your father wanted to live in two worlds.” “What do you mean?” “He believed in us, but only to the point that it helped him. He didn’t invest in what we had to offer.” “Why should he have invested? It wouldn’t have changed anything. He died as many others, as we still die, alone.” “What you have failed to realize is that you are not alone. When comprehending it gives strength, an inner strength of endurance that others cannot explain, which you cannot explain. This is what your father lacked, a true belief.” Francisco recognized the sound of voices he heard around fires and gatherings. He heard the voices of his people believing beyond what lay in front of their eyes. He considered himself an educated man, a man who understood that the world existed beyond the invisible lines, which served as boundaries that intended to keep them in and out. He had seen the reward of belief and had created a place where he belonged. He was the dueno of the land and no one could change that fact. Even though he did acknowledge the existence of the people that drift, they, nor the United States nor any man could take away what he had accomplished. The air was thick, and as he looked into the night, Julian could taste the air. 18 18

“Senor Cast, do you know what white people call us?” “No, I can’t say that I do.” “Yes, I expect as much. Well suffice to say that it is not Californios.” Julian wasn’t sure how to respond. Don Francisco’s words echoed in his mind. It was true that what he had witnessed was familiar. In his life what was real had been tested on several occasions, and in time, Julian had balanced his life between the lines. He didn’t know how or why the drifting figures were familiar. His childhood was filled with stories but not the same stories the Mexicans told. The air was clear and the night voices began to speak, the coyote and the wolf awakened and their voices entered the conversation of the night. A servant appeared on the bottom of the porch steps waiting for his instruction. Don Francisco spoke with words and hand gestures. The servant bowed and without eye contact proceeded down the path. As the servant walked, a baby’s cry caught his attention. When his son was of that age, he cried and cried until his mother picked him up and whispered in his ear. He never knew what she whispered and had often asked her about those days. She never revealed what she said to her son. The boy had died when he was five years old, and the couple never had another child. After their son’s passing, he began to serve Don Francisco and his family. His wife worked in the kitchen with some of the older Mexican ladies. In time, she learned to speak some Spanish and he did the same, although, he was able to become more fluent than his wife. The Mexicans never knew their names and took to calling them Thomas and Lupe. His wife still believed in the old ways and continued praying to the spirits who according to what she was told prophesied that their people would take back the land. When he entered their humble abode, she sat on a mat near a fire. “Are you still praying to the spirits?” He said. 19 19

“Do not mock the spirits. We will once again have our land.” He smiled and kicked the hard dirt floor. “Have the spirits told you when. Have they given a date?” “The white man appearance is no coincidence. Change is coming.” “Hah, change from one piece of dog shit dueno to another. Do you think the white man will be any better?” “The spirits say that we are strong and one day the land will return to our people.” “Stop with that nonsense. We are strong. But the white man does not care about how strong we are because their God is just as strong as our gods.” She sat with the crackling of the fire. He waited for her to respond and when she didn’t he laid down. She stabbed the fire with a piece of wood and lay beside her husband. “Why do you despair?” “Because that is all that is left for us, our history is not enough to sustain us. I have no doubt we will survive.” “And what is wrong with that.” “Don’t you see? I don’t want us or our people to survive, to exist. I want to live.” She laughed with energy and loudness. He was startled by her outburst. He didn’t know what she found so enjoyable. “I am glad I can still amuse you my wife.” She continued to laugh and held her side with the painful delight of laughter. When her laughter subsided she sat up and stoked the fire. “I do not laugh at you my husband, I laugh because to survive is too live and life is survival.” 20 20

When the servant departed, the winds blew with a strong gust and then gentle breezes that refreshed the two men sitting on the porch. The branches creaked as curiosity of old men walking. The winds passed. Chickens squawked with a low murmur. The luminous night allowed the two men a view of the entire compound, as they sat alone in their thoughts. A tunnel of dust drifted through the yard and then was gone. “You Americans do not appreciate the things that are not given to you,” Don Francisco paused, “our ancestors, our history is not dead. It is part of the present. Regardless of what is believed, the past and present are intertwined.” Julian nodded with understanding but didn’t understand. The two men departed with one last glance and the sound of words infiltrating the night. “We tell the people what they need to hear. If what we say is tainted with impurities, it is for the betterment of the people, moving around truth does not negate the appearance of honor.” As Julian entered his room, he was calm and a feeling of belonging eased his tired bones. He felt so at ease in the land that he slept with his boots on. The morning activities began before the sun had a chance to shine. Before the first rays, the servants were hard at work. Each individual moved with purpose and haste. Julian understood certain words and phrases that the servants spoke. A mixture of English, Spanish, and a language that he never heard was spoken by the people that scurried along. He felt rested and energetic from the previous night, which was a relief. He hoped that some of his recollections were from a dream. When Julian entered the courtyard wonderment filled his eyes at what the Mexicans had created. Trees lined the path to the main house, cottonwoods swayed in the morning breeze, their strange silence mixed with the outcrop of buildings. Since his arrival, a gradual respect had found a place in his thoughts and 21 21 being. He appreciated the Mexicans ability to survive and not only survive, but their ability to thrive. The flowers, in front of the house, relegated the house with civility. Purple and yellow with shades of various colors and sizes adorned the house. He continued to survey the area. He envisioned a day when order would come to the land. A day when the Mexicans and natives would appreciate American ingenuity, although, Julian witnessed no disorder, in fact, he saw a cavalcade of order in the manner of a well-run army. The people moved with purpose, yet he believed that the west, the land, deserved more. He looked for someone that could direct him to his horse. All the people hurried around, as if completing the last thing that they would ever accomplish. He found a man, near the barn, throwing dirt on a fire. He recognized the man as the servant from the previous night. “Buenas dias, Senor,” he said. “Good morning.” The man spoke little if no English; he smiled and answered Julian’s questions with a yes. With hand signals and horse sounds, Julian got his request granted. “Donde vas?” The man asked. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.” He smiled and said, “Yes,” then bowed his head several times and laughed at nothing in particular. Julian laughed with the man, and as he mounted his horse, he wasn’t sure what was funny. As he moved forward, the laughter of the man could still be heard. In the slivers of the sunlight, the land’s impressive beauty surrounded Julian. He wanted to find several locations that would make a suitable homestead. He didn’t want the Don’s house; he wanted a place of his own, one that he could build with his own hands. When asked who built the home, Julian 22 22 would stand up straight and say, “Me.” After several hours, he came upon a piece of land that had everything he imagined. There were trees, flowers, grass, and a small creek fed the surrounding soil. This was the pace Julian thought. The place where he would build his home and create his fortune lay before his eyes. He got off his horse and picked up a small amount of dirt and squeezed the soil until it slipped through his fingers. “Yes, this is the place,” he said. He bent down and drank from the creek and after he drank his fill, he noticed and gazed at his reflection. Lifting his head to the sound of lapping water, two furred creatures drank further down the creek. “I am sorry; may we drink from your water?” One of the creatures asked. Julian stood silent for a moment. He splashed his face with water, and when he looked up, the coyote was sitting on his hind legs as if awaiting instruction. The other creature appeared different and yet the same, it was a wolf. “This is not my water, maybe someday soon, I hope.” “Ah, so there is hope. Tell me sir, why not just claim the land,” the wolf said between gulps of water. “Because it’s does not belong to me, the land belongs to the Oliveras.” “And they took it from whom?” The coyote asked. “That I don’t know, probably the Indians.” The two animals howled and laid on their front paws. They watched Julian as he again splashed water on his face. For several moments, Julian stared at the animals and when they didn’t reply he turned around and searched for his horse. The coyote and the wolf stood at attention, gazing at Julian with curiosity, as if amazed at his ability to understand them. The water appeared smooth and soft and Julian pretended that the animals staring at him didn’t exist. Mounting his horse, Julian turned around and decided to continue his survey of the land. An hour had 23 23 passed since he stopped at the creek and he was hungry. He didn’t pack any food and decided to hunt for some small game. The land was plentiful and he was sure that in no time food would be available. Julian walked and waited but no animal or even a bird was detected. Curious at his fortune, he decided to ride back to the Oliveras’ and inquire about lodging for the night and the possibility of buying a piece of Don Francisco’s land. He came to the same creek as before and allowed his horse to drink as he stayed mounted. There were no animals around or near the creek and Julian laughed at what he imagined. The whining of the horse cleared his mind of other thoughts and he looked around the creek. He didn’t see what made the horse nervous and when he maneuvered the reins, the horse grew agitated and bucked him off the saddle. When he hit the ground, the horse galloped away, leaving Julian face down tasting the dirt. He heard a gruff-sounding laugh, “Heh, Heh, Heh,” as he dusted off his clothes. The coyote and wolf now snickered at Julian. “Sorry, we don’t mean to laugh at your misfortune.” Julian continued to dust off, paying no attention to the animals. “He pretends he does not hear us,” the wolf said, snickering. Julian began to walk, following the path of the horse. The two animals walked behind him, continuing to ask him questions. He ignored the questions and knew he was not well. The amount of time traveling had taken a toll on his mind and body. “Julian, do you remember your father and mother? Do you remember the stories that they told on cold nights? Did you believe them?” A few hundred yards away he found his horse. He smiled at his luck and spoke to the horse in a soft tone. The idea of walking back to the Oliveras’ wasn’t 24 24 appealing and would not be wise in his weakened state. The animals were no longer behind him and he sighed in relief. “Damn horse,” Julian whispered. The day was hot and he needed to rest, he needed some shade to help regain his senses. He found a tree with a fair amount of covering and sat under the shade of the leaves. He closed his eyes but found no rest. The thought of a coyote and a wolf invaded his mind, and he tried to ignore the questions that the animals asked. He did remember several stories from his youth. The sound of his mother’s voice was a comfort and then he remembered the strong hands of his father. He felt safe within those hands and secure in the voice of his mother. One particular story stood out from the rest. The story was about a man and woman who lost their child to war and famine. The couple cried to their gods, and their prayers were heard, but their son never returned. The gods whispered comfort at night and the couple soon had another son and then another. The couple had five sons and when the woman had the last son, the gods again whispered into their ears. On their death beds, the couple cursed the gods for taking their son. “Sweet words are of no comfort,” the woman said. “We needed action to intercede, the future does not take away the pain from the past,” the man said. Julian asked his mother why the couple was angry at the gods. “Because sometimes when we lose family, we get lost in the leftovers. Do you understand?” He shook his head yes, but never understood. Yet the story remained with him. When he awoke, the warmth of the sun had diminished and the night would soon engulf the day. He had seen enough of the land and wanted his share before 25 25 all the others made their way onto the region. It was inevitable that others would come and lay claim to the best pieces of land. Julian believed he found the best piece and if his plans came to fruition, he would have more than just a piece of the land, he would own all of it. Fear entered his thoughts as he arouse from his sleep. The fear took hold and Julian didn’t move. His hand fell to his gun and he waited for someone or something to appear. The fear had no name and with all the might that he could muster, Julian grabbed the reins and walked along the side of his horse. One hand rested on his gun and the other held the reins. When he stopped for a break, he rolled down his sleeves. Estimating that the night would be upon him in an hour, he pushed the horse, faster and faster. The coyote and wolf followed Julian, and when the horse began to gallop, they kept pace. When he noticed the two animals, he slowed the horse to a trot. Afraid that he was crazy, Julian rubbed his eyes. The animals slowed with him and howled in unison. “What do you want with me?” Julian shouted. The animals continued to howl and he dismounted and approached them with caution. He shouted and the animals didn’t move. Spit dribbled of his chin and he pulled out his gun and aimed at the animals. “Do you plan to take us as well?” The coyote asked. “What do you want?” “Nothing, remember what your mother told you. It is easy to forget the past, true strength belongs to those who remember.” “I must be crazy. I am receiving advice from a coyote and wolf.” Before he answered, the animals vanished. Gathering the reins of the horse, Julian shook his head and laughed. Don Francisco’s house was near, and Julian continued to laugh as he entered the compound. Marie De Luz watched the white 26 26 man as he dismounted his horse. She knew what he had planned, it was in his eyes, and yet her husband let the man stay and now he was back. Two servants helped the white man with his horse; they would feed and water the animal. Julian thanked the two young men and tipped his hat when he noticed Marie De Luz.

Don Francisco’s voice was calm when he spoke. He came to his nearest neighbor, Delfino Canillo, to talk about the white man. Delfino was not as wealthy as Francisco, but was a friend and someone who on occasion Francisco consulted. “This isn’t the first white man that we have seen in our area. We have dealt with them before, Francisco, hell, you even speak their language.” “This is different Delfino, in the past they would come and go. We have lost the war. Mexico will not help us in any way and haven’t they treated us as if we were no longer Mexican. The distance from our home and the war has left us in a place with nothing to claim.” “Calm down, we were assured that our lands will remain our lands. We have the right to be here, is it not so?” “Si, pero.” “You worry too much Francisco. We have been in this land for a long time and I believe we will be in this land for generations. I wouldn’t be surprised if they named a town after us.” “Things change, the white people are like locusts. This white man, Julian Cast, wants a piece of my land, but his eyes say that he wants all my land.” Francisco lit a cigarette and blew small clouds of smoke, which reminded him of Mexico and his people. The smoke clouds began as solid and then slowly vanished. As the small clouds drifted into the air, Francisco and Delfino watched them disappear from their sight. 27 27

“Francisco, we have to stick together. Mexico is done with us and the Americans do not need us, only our land. If we don’t remember who we are, then we won’t have anything.” “Ah, Delfino you sound like my wife.” “I knew she was the brains of the outfit.” The two men laughed. Delfino’s daughter came out of the house with two glasses of water. She greeted Francisco and then without provocation she began to speak to the men. Delfino looked at her in amazement and chastised her intrusion. Francisco waved off his friend and requested the young woman to finish her thought. She asked about the war and what would happen to her family. Francisco listened at her concerns and answered, trying to alleviate her worries. “What about the news of all the Anglos entering our land? Is it true that we will lose all that we have?” She asked. “Go inside and let the men finish their conversation. These things are not your concern,” Delfino responded. “How can you say that? This is my home too.” “Enough, go inside.” “Were she a son she would be powerful,” Francisco commented as she entered the house. “Sorry Francisco, I indulge my children and this is the result.” “No apologies necessary, I only wish that my son was nearer to her age. She will make a good wife for someone.” “God help him, whoever the pour soul.” The two men laughed at Delfino’s prayer. Francisco appreciated his humor and counted him a dear friend. He also realized that Delfino would not stand up against the Anglos and what was coming. His friend loved the life that they had 28 28 created, but he also loved the idea of the region becoming part of the United States. The day after the war had ended; Delfino arrived at his home with a bottle of wine and some bread. Delfino wanted to celebrate not only the end of war; he also wanted to celebrate their forthcoming status as Americans. When Francisco didn’t share his enthusiasm, Delfino patted Francisco on the back and continued with the celebration. Francisco wished that he felt the same way as his friend, instead, he knew that they, the Mexicans, were no longer part of Mexico and that they were not part of America. The war had left them alone in a country that encouraged their stay regardless of discouraging actions. “Do you still believe that they will let us keep our lands Delfino?” “Yes, I have to believe.” “Strange thing to say, ‘I have to believe.’” Delfino looked at his friend and visualized the young man who, with his family, had conquered this land. He remembered the battles with the Indians and the pride that he and all the families felt representing Mexico and establishing a new frontier. Surely, the Anglos would let them keep what they had established. The servants didn’t understand what the white man was saying. They took the horse from him without responding and that confused the white man. They were told to be respectful and courteous by the dueno, and they would honor that request. They had no love for the white people, they thought like many other servants that there was no good in them and that their intentions always changed direction as if wind. The Mexicans had taken the land from their ancestors and the white people will take away from the Mexicans. “Take the horse to the barn and I will make sure that it is watered and fed,” the first servant said. 29 29

“This is a very handsome horse, how much do you think he paid for such a fine animal?” the second servant asked. “I don’t know and I don’t care. We are here to do our work and that’s all I care about. I don’t want any trouble with the dueno or his wife. Did you see how she looked at him?” “Yes, I think that he will not stay long if she has something to say in the matter.” “True.” Marie De Luz watched the two servants take the horse from Julian, he tipped his hat toward her and when he wasn’t looking she made the image of the cross. Her husband would arrive later that night and she would let her feelings be known. The white man had to leave. She wished her husband would confide in her. He told her what she needed to know and as any good wife, she listened. But the white man was another matter. Julian Cast was here to stay at that she was sure. No one travels a great distance for the scenery and the enjoyment of riding. She would speak her mind, even at the expense of her husband’s anger.

We saw you dancing underneath the dying tree, your feet thumping the hard brown dirt. You danced as if there was no else in the world, as if you could bring life to a dying tree. We watched that day and when you finished, the birds sang and the blue sky chased away the clouds and you raised your hands, cupping them, wanting to drink the sky. We came telling you stories, and you listened with such interest; we had no doubt about you or the truth. “Marie, I remember when your grandmother was a young girl, younger than you are today. She never danced; she liked to watch the birds and the 30 30 butterfly. She never grew out of that and even in her older age, she took time to appreciate the beauty of such things.” “I appreciate beauty.” “Yet you dance underneath a dying tree.” “You knew my grandmother?” “Oh yes, she was a beautiful soul. If it wasn’t for your grandfather’s influence, she would have believed.” The sound of cracking and then the branch hitting the ground made you move from underneath the tree. “I didn’t know my grandfather.” “Well, you weren’t missing much. He never truly understood the power he had. He could have used his influence in other ways.” “Did he like horses? Because I like horses.” “Yes, may be too much.” “That’s good.” “Marie, we hope you continue to dance. Dancing will help you remember who you are and the power of your people. Dance until your grandmother comes to join you. Dance until your people join you and they will if you continue.” “My friends tell me that the old dances are stupid. They say that they don’t matter anymore and that I dance as a young girl.” “Change is inevitable. It is in remembering why you dance or move a certain way that is important.” We can see you look in our direction and you begin to dance and dance. Your body moves faster that your feet. You come to the fallen branch and pick it up. You examine the bark and the bald spots on the piece of wood. Then you use the branch as a writing tool. The letters begin to take shape and when we peer 31 31 down the letters have meaning. You toss the branch and walk away from the tree and look behind you one last time before you go and when we scan the letters, we read. “I will not forget the dance.”

The day was almost done and Francisco and I discussed the Anglo, Julian Cast. What kind of name is Cast? The previous night, I wondered if he had a wife and children. He is young, but that doesn’t mean anything. I married at a young age. I was fifteen when Francisco became aware of my existence. Whether he knew of me before is debatable. I am sure he saw me in the village; he denies it and says that he didn’t notice me until I turned fifteen. Liar, he used to come to visit my father and stayed for dinner on several occasions and he would stare at me. The fact that he and my father were friends didn’t matter to me, and I never gave him a second thought. I knew he was interested but he was older, not much older, though at that age ten years is substantial. When I turned fifteen, he asked my father’s permission for marriage. “Of course,” he said, and Francisco rubbed his hands together and put my hand in his, and with the softness of a cool breeze whispered, “You are now mine.” Mother and her comadres congratulated us and suggested that I must continue in the ways of the people. “The moment when you become a real woman is not important; it is the following day that is teemed with difficulties and decisions. When he wakes up you must be a wife and allow him to strut around as if a Rooster. A man must be a man, but you must feed the other side.” The women spoke and I listened. I tried to comprehend their message, still, all I thought about was the day that I danced under the dying tree and the words 32 32 scrawled on the hard, brown dirt. Those words had fed me in the crowded market places and they kept me warm in the grip of Enero. I can see those words mother, I can see, I can see. “Marie, may the spirits bless you and your children.” “Mother, I have no doubt that they will.” “Francisco is a good man and comes from a good family. They believe in the old ways, and they didn’t embrace the statues of the Spaniards. Those statues can do nothing for you; they just stand with cold eyes waiting for the birds to shit on them. I know you have seen the spirits, as we all have. Our people will live on as long as we stay true to them. They will protect us from whatever and whoever comes.” “Mother, you shouldn’t say such things about the statues. There is some good in what they bring.” “Marie, we have lived in this land for generations and before the Spaniards we had our beliefs and traditions. These things cannot be forgotten. Our blood has been spilled in order that we never lose sight of that.” After the wedding night, Francisco began to change; He came home late and never explained what he was doing so late at night. I had my suspicions that the local tavern and the alcohol competed with me for his time. It wasn’t that he didn’t work, he did. He worked hard and provided for us in the beginning years. His friend, Hilberto Suarez, came to our house one night with the idea of going to Alta California. Francisco wasn’t interested, at first, but after many drinks and nights discussing the idea with Hilberto, he decided it was a good idea. One night he came home and entered the bedroom. He was quiet and didn’t say a word to me. I pretended I was asleep, which I always did. Yet that night, Francisco shook me with such intensity that it frightened me. 33 33

“Wake up; I have to tell you something. I saw, I don’t know what I saw.” He stood in the dark and I could feel his eyes watching me. His eyes continued their probe as if he could see beyond the skin. “What are you saying?” “Hilberto ran and I laughed at first because I thought that the drink had taken him.” “Francisco, I don’t understand. I told you about the night.” “Don’t speak to me about your tales and superstitions.” “They are not my superstitions, they’re yours as well. You know them far better than I. Tell me what happened.” Your hesitation didn’t surprise me. It was the way you hesitated, the way you looked around the room, the way you looked at me, as if someone was listening. “When I stopped laughing at Hilberto, I waited but he never returned. I began to walk home. My mind wandered and I thought of you, sitting in the house, waiting for me. Then, I heard a sound. It wasn’t a voice and yet there was something familiar in the sound. The alcohol must be taking over I reasoned. As the house came into view, I saw them. They were in front of me and I knew them from my abuelos.” “What did you do?” “I didn’t do anything. I walked around them and continued to walk home.” “They didn’t say anything? They didn’t talk to you?” “Nothing I haven’t heard before. Foolishness. Words that float about and cling to nothing, which never helped my father.” The wind tapped on the roof and I sensed that you didn’t want to talk anymore. We listened to the night, alone in our thoughts. You took off your 34 34 clothes and fell onto the bed. I caressed your arms and back, you turned around and touched my hands with a young man’s awkwardness. The wind subsided and the calm that comes entered our bedroom. “Did you love your father?” “Yes.” With a gentle feel, your fingertips traced my entire body. Although your lips were dry and hard, they felt good on my skin. As my legs parted and you climb onto my body, I felt a weakness in your breathing and when you kissed my neck, I tasted salt from your cheek. I wondered why you fought against belief.

The smell of the food made his mouth salivate with anticipation. Streams of smoke filled the air and some of the people walked through the smoke, as if invited. Julian sat outside of the barn. He waited for Don Francisco’s arrival. He felt that staying in the man’s house was inappropriate without the Don. As he waited, he noticed the man who introduced him to the Don. He hadn’t seen the man since his arrival. The man acknowledged Julian with a nod. Julian nodded back. Marie De Luz gave instructions to her kitchen staff in preparation for Francisco’s return. Lupe bowed her head as the orders and instructions spewed from the duena’s mouth. The other three women that were in the kitchen didn’t make eye contact and answered every question from Marie De Luz with, “Yes.” Lupe’s relationship with the duena or lack thereof relied on her quiet demeanor and the tasty hot food. If the food was cold she would hear an earful. She was the one who received the vocal chastisement because she had a grasp of their language. With her husband’s help, she learned to speak and understand the 35 35 subtleties of their language. Therefore, she was put in a position of importance in the kitchen. Still, there was no doubt that Marie De Luz was in charge. “Don Francisco will arrive soon and he will be hungry. The food needs to be hot.” Lupe didn’t need instruction on the food’s temperature. She knew what the Don liked and how he liked it. “Si, senora, everything will be ready.” “Good.” “And the Anglo, will he be dining?” Marie De Luz never considered Julian; she imagined that as long as the white man stayed her husband would extend an invitation. That’s the proper thing to do. “Yes, make preparations.” “Si senora.” She and her husband needed to talk. There was never any doubt that the Anglo’s arrival was inevitable. With his presence, it was obvious that some form of action must be discussed. Whatever her husband’s thoughts, she must change them. She would not tolerate the Anglo’s presence much longer. She heard laughter from outside. When she parted the curtains, she saw Julian laughing with one of the workers and she crossed her arms and observed.

When Francisco Olivera dismounted, he realized that his wife was not there to greet him. Whenever he returned, from his business dealings, she waited outside and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Donde esta la senora?” He asked the man who attended his horse. “No se, Don Francisco.” 36 36

Dismissing the servant, Don Francisco strolled around his compound. Compound, a word he learned from the Anglos. He had traded with them and supplied meat for the U.S. government. The conclusion of the war didn’t concern him. He made his money by selling to whoever wanted to purchase. When the Mexicans wanted to buy, he sold. When the Americans wanted to buy, he sold to them as well. He was in the business to make money. His allegiance was to his bank account and then his family. Without the business, taking care of his family would be impossible. She heard the commotion and knew that her husband had arrived. She stayed in the house, concerned that the Anglo would see them; she waited for her husband inside. “Shall we send for the Anglo, senora?” Lupe stood behind her waiting for a response. “Yes, by all means.” Watching the door shut behind the servant, Marie De Luz wished to hear her mother’s voice. The sound of her warmth coursed through her veins. There was much more to being a wife than just laying on your back. She needed to hear that everything was going to be okay and that Francisco’s failure to believe the words would fade. “Marie, how goes your marriage?” “Mother, he comes home late every night, and I wonder who he has been with.” “He is being a man. They all wander; looking for something better, always think there is something better.” “Do they all think that?” 37 37

“Yes, but they still come home. You make a home for him and he will always return. He is young and with your help he will learn and with time change.” This night would be the last night for Julian Cast. She and her husband, together, needed time to access their situation and the Anglo’s presence interfered with their plans. “Mother, help me to remember what you taught me. Help me to remember our stories and to gather strength from them.” “Daughter, it will always be.” “What will always be?” “Your strength.” She heard the kitchen staff as they readied for dinner. Julian moved toward the Don, waiting for him to dismount. The time had come to talk about the land. Time was wasting and Julian wanted to secure his piece of land. His plan was to offer money for the property he desired. Julian realized that an offer may quell any future intentions of harm. The Don acknowledged his presence and the two men exchanged pleasantries. “I see that you are still here, Senor Cast.” “Yes, I apologize for imposing. The day got away from me and we need to talk.” Don Francisco continued walking, observing the activities of the waning day. Julian felt uneasy. He wasn’t sure of the Don’s reaction upon his request. “You are welcomed to stay the night. As for the conversation you seek, I will oblige the request after dinner.” “Thank you, Don Francisco.” “Why do you thank me?” 38 38

“Because of your hospitality.” “It is nothing. I would do the same for a stray dog.” The two men were silent. Julian’s hand rested on the handle of his gun. Don Francisco noticed his attempt at subtly. He also carried a gun and had no qualms in pulling the weapon. If Julian’s intention went beyond friendship, he and the gun were ready. After they walked a few more steps, Julian removed his hand from his gun. He didn’t seek a confrontation, at least, not before he secured the land, and he was coming to like the Don. Upon entering the main house, Marie De Luz greeted her husband, and with noticeable reservation, she greeted Julian. She suggested the men wash for dinner and when they finished dinner would be served. The two men complied and Julian was directed to a place where he could wash. Marie De Luz followed her husband. “Why did you invite the Anglo?” “He is harmless.” “Do you see his eyes? There is nothing harmless about the man.” He laughed and grabbed his wife around the waist. “I’ve missed you my wife.” “I know what you missed.” She turned around to face him. He kissed her neck, his hands massaging her breasts; he began to unbuckle his pants. “No, you have a guest to attend.” “Later then.” “We’ll see.” Their kiss was quick but gentle. Her fingers touched his chest. She smiled. His heart beat as if a school boy. “What is the matter?” She asked. 39 39

“Nothing.” “Your heart races.” He pulled his wife closer. Unable to express what they felt, they looked at each other. “Because I am near you, come; let us not keep our guest waiting.” She watched her husband exist the room, and for a moment, she stood with her silence, listening for her mother’s voice. When Don Francisco and Marie De Luz entered the dining room, Julian stood behind a chair. He smiled at the couple, hoping to ease the previous tension. The two men stood, waiting for Marie De Luz to sit. She didn’t return his smile and hesitated before she sat down. The Don nodded his approval and the two men sat down. Again, pots of food were placed on the table. Julian recognized rice and beans. The meat dish, which they called carne something, smelled delicious. The Don didn’t wait to be served; he piled a vast amount of food on his plate. Marie De Luz waited. Julian was served and she asked the two men to bow their heads. The Don looked at his wife; they never prayed over the food, he wouldn’t allow it. The gods never gave him anything. What he acquired was due to his ingenuity and perseverance. Her sincere tone moved the Don, as he stared into her eyes; he remembered the many nights that she warmed his bed and the day that his friend Hilberto ran away. She was at his side. He saw the young girl she would always be and bowed his head. Although Julian didn’t understand their language, he prayed his own prayer. He listened to the beauty of her voice, a soothing tone filled with sincerity. Nothing was said after the prayer, and for several moments, the only sound was of clanging silverware. “How do you enjoy the food?” The Don asked. 40 40

“It’s good,” Julian said between mouthfuls. “Food is the language that all men can understand. It allows men to be men,” The Don said. “Senor, puedo preguntar algo?” Marie De Luz asked. “My wife would like to ask you a question.” “Alright.” Her words were rapid. Julian stared at her and turned his focus on Don Francisco. “I am really sorry that I don’t understand Spanish because that sounded like a mouthful of questions.” Don Francisco stopped chewing his food. Julian continued to eat. He wondered if his words had offended the Don. The timing was unfortunate; he didn’t want any trouble before he finished his business. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you or your wife. She said a lot and it’s just an expression,” Julian said. The Don smiled and waved his hand, dismissing Julian’s words. “Sometimes your own language is hard to comprehend. There are meanings within meanings. My wife speaks of things that are not easily translated.” “I guess English is the same way. One particular word can have several different meanings. It depends on the use and where you are,” Julian said “Where are you from, Senor Cast?” “New York.” “And your family, where are they from?” “Somewhere in Europe, not rightly sure, my parents passed away when I was just a youngin.” 41 41

“Europe, I suppose all of us in the new world come from Europe, although, it is not always acknowledged.” Don Francisco turned to his wife and translated his words. She listened with intent. She grasped every letter, as if it were her husband’s final words. Husband and wife conferred with each other, as Julian continued to eat. “Senor, my wife wants to know how long you intend to stay.” Marie De Luz looked at her husband. He returned the stare. Her eyes returned to her plate. “Well, I’ll have a better idea of how long, later. There are a few things that I have to take care of first.” She raised her head and Julian met her stare. Don Francisco coughed and reclined back in his chair. She called for the servants. In haste, they entered and cleared the table and poured coffee. “What is your intention, Senor?” “I want to buy some land from you.” Holding the cup with both hands, Don Francisco leaned forward. “My land is not for sale.” “Sir, with all due respect, the land is now part of America. How long do you think you can hang on to it?” “That is my intention, Senor Cast. I don’t care what you or anyone else wants. The land, my land is not for sale. The Americans promised it would remain with the rightful owners. I have a deed and I expect it to be honored.” “Your position is foolish, Mr. Olivera. The news is out about this land, about the west, and people are coming. Do you expect them to honor your wishes? I have seen homesteaders; they plot down on a piece of land and are hard to budge. I, at least, want to buy from you.” 42 42

“Ah, so you do me a favor, is that it.” “I believe you own this land and I want to do right by you.” Marie De Luz whispered to her husband. The words agitated her husband. He stood up and glared at her. She straightened her body and arched her shoulders. Julian expected some sort of reprisal from Don Francisco; instead, he sat back down and contemplated her words. Julian wished he spoke their language. “Excuse me sir, but my wife reminds me of something. She reminds me of words from our past. These words, these sayings, come from stories that we are told from the time we are children. It is nonsense.” “May I ask what Mrs. Oliver said?” He rubbed his chin in a curious manner, as if her were trying to scrub off the skin. Julian observed a trace of red appear. When Don Francisco removed his hand, Julian noticed the outline of fingers. “When we are young, we hear all manner of stories. The old people believe in spirits. They believe that my people are protected. They say that the spirits that drift in the air watch over us. My wife reminds me of that protection.” “I take it you don’t believe that.” “Senor Cast, it is not a matter of belief, it is a matter of truth. My father died working for another man. His hands, no matter how many times he washed them, were never clean. His fingernails were spotted with black dirt. That’s truth. The spirits lie. We hear of the strength, the will, the history of our people in order to make us feel better. They say we can overcome all and that our destiny lies in our hands. Look around you; I built this, not tradition.” Julian nodded in agreement. He took a drink of coffee. The words of Don Francisco resonated in his mind. The three sat in silence. The husband and wife were clearly uncomfortable. They beckoned for more coffee. 43 43

“Senor, we are told stories about our history and people. They are nice stories and I must admit that I believed them when I was younger. Senor, the past can help shape a man but not his future. I wish you well, but I cannot sell any of my land.” “You are making a mistake.” “It is a possibility, senor,” Don Francisco said as he stood moving toward the window. “Although, I don’t believe in the stories of the past, there are some things we can learn from it.” He looked out the window. “Senor Cast, we live and strive to be better than what we were. There is only remembrance in succeeding. Nobody will acknowledge us because we tried. We will be remembered because of achieving. I have achieved this. I didn’t get help from some childish dreams and visions; rather, I succeeded because of me. Julian stood and walked toward the door. The Don opened the door and the two men felt the cool breeze of the night. “They will come and take it, and in the end you will have nothing,” Julian said. “Isn’t that what you want?” “No.” “Regardless, good luck in finding your land,” the Don said, as he extended his hand toward Julian. “Thank you for your hospitality. I am sure we will see each other again.” “Buenas noches, Senor.” “Good night Mrs. Olivera.” Julian stepped out into the night; a chill was in the air. “Do you think we will see him again?” Marie De Luz asked. 44 44

“Yes, these Anglos are determined.” “Then why didn’t you sell, make some money?” “Because of the spirits.” “What?” “The spirits are right on one matter. This land is our destiny. This land is ours.” Marie De Luz hugged her husband. Francisco held on, embracing his wife with tenderness “So am I,” she whispered in his ear.

The emergence of the Anglo influence created a collective solidarity among the Mexican population. The millions of acres held by the Californios, pristine land, granted by the Spanish and Mexican governments where being disregarded, which allowed numerous squatter riots. With the passing of the Land Act, Don Francisco foresaw that his claim would now be challenged. The Land Act would advance the squatters claim in what they believed was their land. The last days of the Californio neared. Looking out onto his ranch, Don Francisco envisioned the stream of Americans. Everywhere he turned, he saw uncivilized Anglos. Don Francisco sighed as he remembered his encounters with these people. They were loud and forceful, digging rows into the soil. They planted seeds, as if feeding chickens. He saw their status diminish. They were no longer owners. In a matter of months; they had been relegated to hired ranch hands, a labor force only in name. Some of their women washed clothes and held other menial jobs. And, although, some of Don Francisco’s fellow Californios were educated and worked as 45 45 professionals, in time, he saw that regardless of their positions, they would be segregated beyond recognition. The letter was secure in his saddle bag, as he left for the ranch. Unsure of what to say, he would present the letter to the Don. They hadn’t spoken for quite some time. He preferred to pay but the Don had resisted and that option had long passed. As he neared the ranch, he saw the Don sitting on his porch. The sun hammered Julian’s forehead and the birds squawked their discomfort. Don Francisco looked up as Julian Cast approached his home. “Why have you come?” He asked. “Good to see you. You look well.” The compound was quiet. A few workers milled around the grounds. It was apparent to Julian that a once thriving ranch floundered in the shadow of its success. The grounds were unkempt, and the flowers that he remembered were no longer vibrant. Julian dismounted. He touched a red flower and it crumbled in his hand. Without notice, Don Francisco stood at the side of Julian and began to urinate on the flowers. Shocked, Julian stepped back. “What are you doing?” Julian asked. “Peeing.” “Why? Why on the flowers?” Don Francisco laughed. “This is still my land, Senor Cast, and I can pee wherever I want.” Julian took another step back. He turned around as the Don watered the flowers. When he finished, Don Francisco returned to the porch. “There is nothing to discuss, Senor Cast. What could you tell me that I don’t know?” 46 46

Don Francisco bowed his head. His hands covered his eyes. With quiet footsteps, Julian approached the Don. “Not long after you left, Senor Cast, the spirits paid me a visit. I was told that the Anglos would destroy the land. Those floating spirits said that one day my people would own all the land. I wanted to believe but the Anglos keep coming,” the Don said with a laugh, “I question my own sanity.” As Don Francisco stood, Julian noticed a pistol underneath the chair. The Don staggered to gain his balance. “Mr. Olivera, I wanted to buy the land, remember. Who knows maybe one day your people will own all the land.” Picking up the pistol, Don Francisco paced back and forth. Pieces of mud fell off his boots with each movement. The creaking boards were in rhythm with his weight. “Lies, it’s all lies,” he shouted. “I’ve come to show you something,” Julian said, as he reached in his saddlebag. “You will one day own the land. Can you believe such nonsense? The squatters scurry around like cockroaches and you kill one and twenty take their place.” Julian rummaged through his bag. As the Don’s words echoed in the silence, a family passed through the compound with all their belongings. After a few moments, another family passed as the two men watched the procession. “Where are they going?” Julian asked. “They go where the work is.” The front door opened and an elderly woman exited and inquired of the Don’s needs. He looked toward Julian and pointed at the woman. 47 47

“I am fine, thank you,” Julian said to the elderly woman. Before he pulled out the letter, the woman began to speak to the Don. Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. She didn’t make eye contact with the Don until her last words. She entered the house and closed the door with care. Without notice, he picked up the pistol and fired it into the floorboards of the porch. Surprised, Julian grabbed the horse’s reins. The elderly woman peeked out the door. The Don noticed the woman. As he moved toward the door, a man appeared around the corner of the house. He raised the pistol and the man moved away, disappearing behind the house. The woman shut the door. He shouted incoherent words, a mumbled mass of gibberish. Julian clung to the reins and the letter. He waited for the tirade to end. When he finished spewing his incoherent stream of words, Don Francisco turned and faced Julian. Smiling, he sat down and motioned for Julian to do the same. “She is leaving tomorrow,” Don Francisco said, as he pointed at the door. “Where will she go?” “Who knows?” “Where is your wife?” “She is inside, praying. She has prayed with a continuous zeal, as if it matters. She says that one day we will populate all the land, and that the people that drift in the air assure this.” Julian shrugged his shoulders, unsure of how to respond to their ways. “This is a strange land, Mr. Olivera. I’ve witnessed its strangeness and these things that your wife speaks of, these people that drift, well, I wouldn’t be so skeptical.” Don Francisco’s laughter forced him to steady his chair. 48 48

“Just because you’ve seen a few strange things doesn’t mean you understand,” he said between his laughter. “Yes, I know you’ve seen strange things, but how can you understand our culture when your people have conquered it. Our stories, our traditions, wilt in the face of reality. Whatever my wife has been told, whatever I’ve been told are lies. How do I know this? I know, because you stand in front of me.” Julian folded the letter in half and put it in his front pocket. He stood and walked to the end of the porch. Scanning the landscape, Julian couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. Everything he worked for was being taken away. He didn’t like the methods of some of the squatters who took without regard. Julian felt sadness for the Don and men of his ilk, they deserved better. “I guess I should be going. I’ve a long way to go.” “Senor Cast, one thing before you leave.” Francisco Olivera stood in front of Julian. No words were spoken as the men faced each other. Julian felt uneasy as the Don stood with a pistol in hand. “Do you believe in what you’ve seen?” Julian reflected on what he had witnessed. He remembered the sounds, the voices that had spoken. Belief was not an option. “No, I don’t believe.” “Good, it’s better that way. One day reality will come for a visit and you want to see her coming. Me entendes?” Francisco Olivera said goodbye. As he neared the edge of the Don’s home, Julian heard a familiar sound; it was reminiscent of a door slamming shut.

YA YA’S DAY

Ya Ya Olivera stood in front of the barber shop. He read the headline of the paper behind the glass, “The War Is Over.” Ya Ya was a nickname. His name Yasidero was long and complicated and the Anglos had a hard time pronouncing it. They stopped at Ya and then struggled until they gave up. The teachers were the worst. They called him Yas, which in time shortened to Ya and finally Ya Ya. He didn’t mind the nickname, and when the teachers called his name he felt important. Ever since his family had moved to Washington, he was subjected to harassment from local Anglos. Ya Ya was born in California. He was a citizen, yet the Anglos grouped him and his family with the braceros and the illegals, the mojados as he called them. These Mexicans were straight off the ranchos of Mexico. They came to the Yakima Valley, like Ya Ya’s family, to find work. But there different ways made them a target for ridicule and abuse. On several occasions, Ya Ya heard Anglo’s shout, “Why don’t you go back to Mexico?” Ya Ya replied, “Because I was born here.” Sometimes, he would have to fight after exchanging words with Anglos. It was never a fair fight because the Anglos traveled in packs. Like wolves, they surrounded Ya Ya and beat him down. He even recalled some of his classmates getting in a few kicks. “Kick that son of a bitch again,” someone said, as Ya Ya lay on his side. A foot hit his stomach which made him cough. “You better kick that Mexican.” “C’mon, he’s had enough.” Ya Ya looked up and recognized the boy. 50 50

“Kick him and then it’ll be enough. It’s no big deal; it’s like kicking your dog.” The boy kicked him hard. Ya Ya felt his pinky finger bend back as he tried to block the kick. The boy kicked him again. “See, it wasn’t so bad.” The boy nodded in agreement. He laughed with the other boys. Ya Ya tried to get up. Several things transpired since that beating. His older brother Ernesto was killed in the War and the people of Mexico invaded his land. Ya Ya’s grandfather despised the Anglos and he had no pity for the Mexican workers. When he visited his grandfather’s home, he listened to lectures about his ancestors. His grandfather was proud of the fact that the Oliveras had been in California since the 1800’s. Ya Ya never tired hearing his grandfather’s stories. He was fond of the tales about Don Francisco Olivera. His grandmother also told him stories about their history. Her recollections were different from her husband. She regaled stories about Spaniard, Aztecs, and various other subjects that both intrigued and frightened Ya Ya, especially when he walked home after dark. Some of his friends knew the same stories; they all pretended that the tales about evil birds and drifting spirits were nothing but a joke. Still, after talking about them, Ya Ya and his friends never walked home alone. One Saturday afternoon Ya Ya went to visit his grandparents. As he walked to their home, he noticed a car followed him. He tried to walk faster. The car pulled in front and almost hit him. He heard a voice from within the car ask if he knew of any work. “No, I don’t know anyone hiring.” 51 51

“You speak Spanish well. What part of Mexico are you from?” the voice asked. “I am not from Mexico; I was born in the United States, California.” The car exploded with laughter. Numerous voices shouted questions and statements at Ya Ya. “Do you think you’re an American?” “He thinks he’s better.” The laughter continued as he walked around the car. “Wait,” a voice called after him. One of the men stepped out. He extended his hand. Ya Ya hesitated before he shook the man’s hand. He didn’t appreciate being made fun of by strangers. “Perdon, I am sorry for laughing at you. We have been in this country for over a year and have been to several states, working. We still find it incredible that some of the Mexicans we meet claim to be born here. Have you been to Mexico?” “No, I haven’t.” “And yet you speak Spanish. Is your father from Mexico?” “No, he was born in California like all my family. Listen, I must be going.” “If you know of any work please let me know.” The man moved closer to Ya Ya. “Can you teach me English?” he whispered. Ya Ya didn’t know how to respond, he shook his head no. “Why do you want to learn?” “I want to stay in this country. If I stay, English will help me find a better job. These other pendejos don’t care about such things. They want to go back and believe that speaking English will change us. Such nonsense from backward rancheros, I want to learn.” 52 52

“Well, I guess I can help you find classes or something.” “No, I would like you to help me, no classes.” He didn’t care if this man learned English, but there was something in the man’s voice that he felt compelled to help. Ya Ya suggested he needed time to think about helping the man. What did he know about teaching, he thought. They agreed to meet in a few days and Ya Ya would give him an answer. Entering his grandfather’s home, Ya Ya greeted him with a handshake and hugged his grandmother. His preoccupation was noticeable to his grandparents and they inquired about his day. “Something strange happened on the way here. I was stopped by a car full of Mexicans straight off the rancho.” His grandfather laughed after hearing the word rancho. Ya Ya smiled with him. “Vicente, you shouldn’t laugh. The rancho is still in our blood.” “Ah Chela, forever the romantic.” Ya Ya laughed with his grandparents. “What happened?” his grandfather asked. “They asked about work. Then, they asked me what part of Mexico I was from. I told them I was born in California, the United States. They laughed so hard after I said that, Buelo.” “It’s hard for them to understand that we have been in this country a long time. Most of them are uneducated, they only care about working. I’ve dealt with them for longer than you. They think our history comes solely from Mexico. That’s why most of them don’t learn English. They think they’ll no longer be Mexicans if they forget Spanish.” 53 53

Ya Ya listened to his grandfather and thought about the request of the man. Why did he want to learn English? “Buelo, one of the men asked me to teach him English.” “Obviously an educated man,” his grandfather said, as he exhaled smoke form his cigarette. Chela waved her hands, fanning the smoke away from her face. She made a funny face, pretending she was choking from the smoke. Ya Ya and his grandmother laughed, while his grandfather lit another cigarette. Vicente looked at them with curiosity, he wondered at their laughter. “Chela, did you hear what your grandson said? One of the illegals wants to learn English. Que crears ?” “I think it’s a good idea. We need to help each other, but I don’t know how Ya Ya can teach English when he can barely speak the language,” she said with a smile. “Is he going to pay you? You should get paid for your service,” Vicente added. “I don’t even know if I am going to help him. I want to help but I don’t know if I can.” “Listen, when you see him again tell him that if he wants to learn, it will cost him.” “Vicente, that’s not nice,” Chela said. “Chela, Ernesto died fighting to preserve our country, our freedom. Damn it to all if his brother doesn’t get paid. Free enterprise is the American way.” At the sound of the name, Ernesto, Chela became quiet. She loved all her grandchildren. She disagreed with her husband. Ernesto didn’t die for his country, he died despite his country. 54 54

“Yasidero, if you want to help him, help him, if not then don’t. These are your people and it doesn’t matter that they came from another country. Their lives, stories, and traditions belong to us as well.” “Just don’t let him pay you con goats or chickens,” Vicente added. When he left his grandparent’s home, the sun had vanished as if never coming back. Darkness surrounded him. The sound of his footsteps kept him company. The crunch, crunch of gravel allowed him to concentrate on the sound and not what waited in the dark. His mind began to remember every scary story told. He looked around for the Cuqui who his mother warned about when he was younger. Although the Cuqui only took young children, Ya Ya thought that fifteen cold still be considered young. He heard his grandfather talk about the devil who waited for people at the end of a road or sat on a fence, in the dark, waiting for whoever passed by. Ya Ya didn’t believe in the stories. Still, he picked up his pace and when he heard his name being called he pretended it was the wind. On his right side, he noticed a fence. He passed and thought about going back to his grandparent’s home. He laughed at the thought and continued on his way. The smell of grapes and cows filled the air. Breathing deep, he felt safe. As he got closer to his house, he heard his name being called. He kept walking, not wanting to look around. To his right, voices called his name. On the fence sat not one man but two. Ya Ya stopped. He could feel the hair on his arms move. The two men hopped off the fence, moving toward Ya Ya. “Where are you going Ya Ya?” one of the men asked. “Home,” Ya Ya whispered. “Where?” “Home, how do you know my name?” 55 55

The two men said in unison, “How do we know your name? A good question Ya Ya but a better question is, do you know who we are?” “No, and I don’t want to,” Ya Ya said as he continued to walk The two men followed behind. One on each side, they spoke into his ears. He began to run. The sound of their voices in his ears echoed the question, “Who are we?” He stopped a few blocks from his home. He looked around. He bent over with his hands on his knees, he heaved and sighed trying to regulate his breathing. As he straightened his body, the two men stood in front of him blocking his way home. “Yasidero, why did you run?” Ya Ya closed his eyes and prayed. He didn’t know who heard his prayer. When he opened his eyes, the two men smiled and clapped their hands. “What are you clapping for?” Ya Ya asked. “We clap because of your prayer. You believe in something,” one of the men said. “This is not happening. I don’t believe in you.” “Who are we?” “I don’t want to say.” “Why, because if you say it then we will be real?” “No.” “Ya Ya, you know who we are. We have always been with you and your family. Do you think we disappear because you move from one area to another? You and your fathers have laughed in fear.” The two men stepped aside. Ya Ya moved past them and ran. His legs moving faster and faster, he ran further into the darkness. He ran to leave it 56 56 behind. He ran past time, afraid to turn around, he envisioned the safety of home. The words of the two men floated in the air. He saw the words drifting down to the earth. He saw the words move side to side, he swatted at them. He couldn’t out run the words. They stayed by his side, until the lights of his home could be seen in the distance. Ya Ya stopped running. The light above the front door shimmered. As he moved forward, the words fell softly to the ground, absorbed by the soil. A few days later, he told his grandfather about the incident. Vicente put out his cigarette and listened with all his attention as his grandson told the tale. “Do you believe that?” “Mijo, it was probably your grandmother’s menudo. It has been known to make people hallucinate,” Vicente said with a laugh. Ya Ya didn’t join his grandfather’s laughter. “I’ve been helping that illegal beagle, you know, the one I told you about?” “Yes, something about English. Mijo, get me some water por favor.” Ya Ya went into the kitchen. His grandmother sat at the kitchen table. She sorted through the dry beans. “I heard you say something about helping that man with English.” “Si, I decided to help him.” “Por que?” “I changed my mind after the other night. I had this weird dream.” “Dreams are important, you should listen to them.” “You know it’s hard to believe in that stuff, grandma. I know that you and some of the family believe in that kind of thing, but it’s hard to take those stories serious when they’re told at family gatherings after a day of drinking.” Chela looked at her grandson. “Yasidero, you don’t have to believe in our past to be strong in the future.” 57 57

Taking the glass out of his hand, she walked out of the kitchen. He listened to them as they laughed and joked with each other. Ya Ya poured two glasses of water and sifted through the dry beans.

CORN OR FLOUR TORTILLAS

“Put out the lights, he’s going to see us,” I whispered to my cousin Ya Ya. The car moved slow, inching its way down the street. With the lights off, we could see the passenger sticking his head out the window, looking around. The car stopped in front of the house, I held my breath. Ya Ya laughed with his hands covering his mouth. The passenger got out of the car and moved behind the car. He bent over, looking at the snow as if he were some kind of tracker. The man didn’t have a jacket and after a few moments of grandeur, he entered the car and they drove away. “You laugh like our crazy grandfather Vicente,” I said. Ya Ya removed his hands and I could see his yellow smile. “Who would have thought that throwing snowballs could be so dangerous?” Ya Ya said as he burst out laughing. “That’s the last time I am listening to you. Man, those white boys sure got mad.” “Are you sure they were white boys primo? I am thinking they looked a little tainted.” “Man, they weren’t Mexicans.” “Why not? Look at you. You look like a pinche Indio straight from the hills, and I look like I am from Spain or at least Oklahoma,” he said with a smile. Ya Ya was my older cousin. He had just turned twenty and thought he was a big shot because he graduated high school. I was sixteen and had dropped out of high school. “Olivera men never quit,” my father said the day I left school. “What about the story of Don Francisco?” I responded. 59 59

“He didn’t quit. He was shot. That doesn’t count.” “Are you sure?” “What does it matter now? We are talking about you, about your future.” “Because our family always says that the past, the stories, are important.” My father stormed out of the house. When he returned, he and his brother, Ya Ya’s father, got drunk in the orchard behind our house. That night, I listened to my father and uncle as they got drunk. They laughed and sang throughout the night. When I woke up, my father and uncle were drinking the last of their beers. Cans were scattered around the legs of the chairs that my father secured from our kitchen. My uncle was telling a story as I approached. “I’ve seen her Jaime. I tell you last year I saw her by the river, when I was fishing,” my uncle said to my father. “I thought I saw her too, on the bridge,” my father added. I stood in front of them and listened to the story I had heard several times. The Llorona always comes out, not at night, but when the alcohol flowed. Every Mexican knows about the Llorona. She searched for her children near the river, and her cries can be heard by those unfortunate souls who happen to encounter her on her nightly search. When I first heard her story, I was amazed at her tenacity. She started her search in Mexico, then, she was in California and somehow she had reached the Yakima Valley. My father never appreciated my reasoning especially not after a few beers. “Hey Hector, sit down and have a beer with us.” “It’s seven o’clock Tio Juan,” I said. “So.” “Did I tell you about the time I saw the Llorona when I was fishing?” “Yes,” I said with a smile. 60 60

“You shouldn’t laugh. She is real. Hell, even your father has seen her.” My father sat with his arms folded, his eyes half way shut. “This pendejo quit school Juan.” “I know, you’ve told me all night.” “I had hope for him.” “Jaime, he’ll be all right. Look at us, we’ve never finished school and we did all right. You don’t have to be smart here; he has two arms, a strong back, and two legs. He’ll be fine.” My father handed me a beer and said, “Ni modo.” The following day, after throwing snowballs at cars with Ya Ya, I woke to the sound of my mother’s voice. She was talking to someone at the front door. A few seconds later, she opened my bedroom door and suggested I get up. “Mrs. Garcia needs help shoveling snow,” she said. “She doesn’t have a driveway. She doesn’t even have a car,” I said My mother looked at me and didn’t say a word. Her eyes spoke volumes and when her cheek began to twitch, I had my answer. “What does she need help with?” “It’s the roof. She’s afraid it might cave in with all the snow on top.” “So, you volunteered me.” “I said you would be happy to help her.” I was going to respond but thought better of it. My mother gazed at me and looked for my shoes and coat. Mrs. Garcia met me outside and showed me how to get on the roof. She pointed to a ladder that was buried beneath the snow on the side of her house. I brushed off the snow, revealing an old wooden ladder that probably hadn’t seen a cherry or apple harvest in years. She handed me a shovel, not a snow shovel, but a 61 61 shovel, shovel. As I set the ladder against the house, Mrs. Garcia started informing me about Mrs. Ramirez who lived down the street. I climbed the ladder, listening to her go on about Mrs. Ramirez and chickens. Before I could get on the roof, I cleared a path. I figured that if I cleared a portion of the back roof, before climbing on it, the better the chance I had of not falling off. “Those damn chickens come into my yard and strut around as if they live here. I swear, after the snow melts, if I see one in my yard I am going to kill it and make sopa.” A large section of snow fell off the roof and landed with a thud. I looked down and saw a pair of shoes sticking out from underneath the mound of snow. I laughed. Then I realized that Mrs. Garcia may be hurt. I jumped off the ladder and began digging her out. I found an arm and pulled as hard as I could. “Aye muchacho, que haces. The whole world turned upside down,” she said. “Esta bien?” I asked. She nodded her head yes and coughed. She spit out something yellow. “Esta segura,” I asked. She slapped my shoulder and began to laugh. “Thank the Lord I have the skin of an alligator.” She held out her hands, turning them up and down. I noticed that her pinky fingers were twisted and her joints were red and swollen. “Nothing can get through this leather skin,” she said. I looked at her again. “Estoy bien,” she insisted, “When I was your age we worked on the rancho from sun up to sun down. Asshole duenos never gave us a break.” 62 62

Mrs. Garcia was about my mother’s age, around fifty. She looked much older and I couldn’t imagine her as young. If someone told me she was born this age, I would believe it. “Then, I came to this country and started working and you know what I realized Hector?” I shrugged my shoulders. “I realized that there were assholes here too. It’s just that the Anglos are a little more sneaky about it. Hell, the Mexican you can see coming. The Mexican says, “I going to help you or voy a chingar.” The Anglo says, “I going to help you,” but as he’s helping he turn your world over. You see the difference Hector?” “How long have you been in this country?” I asked. She thought about the question and began to count on her gnarled fingers. “Twenty years,” she said “In all this time, you haven’t learned English?” “Yes, I speak a little but I prefer to speak Spanish. I don’t want to forget our language; it’s the only thing that keeps us together.” I shook my head no and climbed the ladder. I stepped onto the roof and continued shoveling. Mrs. Garcia stood a few yards away from the house, blowing on her hands. I suggested she go inside, she replied that she wasn’t cold. I was thankful that the house wasn’t large. I finished shoveling the back and began to shovel the front of the house. Mrs. Garcia continued talking about Mrs. Ramirez and everyone else in the neighborhood. As the snow piled beneath me, I wondered what she thought about my family. We weren’t from Mexico and although we could speak Spanish, we also spoke English. Did she think we were assholes? When I finished, Mrs. Garcia waited by the ladder. She steadied it as I climbed down. 63 63

“Gracias mijo, most boys around here wouldn’t help anyone.” She handed me a brown bag. “These are tacos for you. There are some with beans, some with chorizo and eggs, and some with chorizo and papas.” “Gracias, Senora Garcia,” I said. “Do you know my daughter Hector?” she asked. “Christina?” “Yes, do you know her?” Christina was my age. We had few classes together. We never spoke, just an occasional hello in the hallways. “She’s inside, would like to talk to her?” I didn’t say anything. I stood with my hands in my pockets and tried to smile. In my mind, my eyes were smiling, but on my face my lips remained straight. I couldn’t even fake a sideways crooked smile. Christina was nice, she wasn’t my type. She always wore pants and a t-shirt. I never saw her in a dress and she didn’t smile, hell, I didn’t even know if she had teeth. I told Mrs. Garcia that my mother was expecting me and if I didn’t get home at a certain time she worried. “Talk to her for just a minute. She doesn’t speak to me. And when she does speak, she talks English. I don’t understand half of what she is saying. She doesn’t like our food. She’s the only Mexican I know, who doesn’t like tortillas. “Do we have bread?” she asks. What’s wrong with her? You speak good English, can you find out?” “I don’t think anything is wrong with her,” I responded. Mrs. Garcia stared at me and then stared at the brown bag as if she wanted her tacos back. 64 64

“There’s nothing wrong with speaking another language.” She sighed. Her eyes were glossy. She began to talk so fast that I couldn’t understand her. She said something about the United States trying to change her people. “Slow down,” I said. She continued talking as if she didn’t hear me. I didn’t know what to do and I was about to walk away when I heard someone call my name. Ya Ya walked toward Mrs. Garcia’s house. Seeing his approach, she slowed and calmed her words. Focusing her attention on Ya Ya, she stopped talking and watched his forward movement. Mrs. Garcia was silent when Ya Ya said hello. He looked at her and I could see that he wondered what he had interrupted. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Your mom said you’d be here shoveling snow off Mrs. Garcia’s roof.” “Mrs. Garcia, allow me to introduce my cousin Yasidero.” She said hello. Without hesitation, she asked me if I would talk to Christina. Ya Ya looked around at the mention of her daughter’s name. “I’ll talk to her when I get a chance, but right now I have to go.” She shook my hand and said goodbye. When she entered her house, Ya Ya smiled. “Christina, huh?” “Don’t start.” “So that’s why you wanted to help Mrs. Garcia.” “It’s not what you think. She wants me talk to her about, about, I don’t know what. I think she’s worried that her daughter doesn’t like being Mexican.” “What?” 65 65

“I don’t know. She was talking about her daughter. She said her daughter doesn’t like tortillas. I guess I am supposed to find out why.” Ya Ya laughed. “Don’t laugh. Mexicans not liking tortillas is serious business.” “I didn’t want to tell you Hector, I don’t like frijoles y arroz,” Ya Ya said laughing so hard he bent down with his hands on his knees. After a few minutes, we stopped laughing. Ya Ya looked at the brown bag. “What’s that?” he asked. “Tacos.” Ya Ya rubbed his hands together and asked if I was going to share. “It’s kinda strange that she don’t like tortillas,” I said. “Maybe, did she say all tortillas?” “What?” “Well, there are corn or flour tortillas, does she hate both?” “I don’t know.” “Find out, because if she only hates one then she is okay.” “Why is that?” “Because there’s still some Mexican in her if it’s one. Now if she hates both corn and flour that’s a problem,” Ya Ya said with a smile. A car drove by and Ya Ya looked down at the snow. I put the bag down. In an instant, I was ready with a snowball in hand. We walked a few feet before the next car approached. The snowball flew in a beautiful arch. With the appearance of the red brake lights, we ran. I dropped the bag of tacos and continued to run. Ya Ya yelled back, “Don’t forget the bag, hell, she may not like tortillas but we do.” I stopped. I turned around and noticed the driver watching us. He jumped back into the car. The bag of tacos lay on top of a small mound of snow, between 66 66 the car and me. I ran toward the bag, the car moved in reverse. I reached the bag before the car. I turned around and ran toward Ya Ya. The driver yelled something about Mexicans. I didn’t care because there’s nothing like fresh homemade tortillas.

CHILD OF THE FOG

Nacho Lopez smokes a funny looking cigarette. I step closer and stare. He notices and extends the skinny cigarette in my direction. I decline with the wave of my hand, Nacho smiles. His girlfriend, Linda, walks by me and plants a few hard kisses on his lips. They make out for a few seconds. “Who’s this?” she asks. “It’s Rookie,” Nacho answers. “Ricky,” I say and extend my hand. Linda looks at it, as if my offer offends her. I put my hand down and pretend I see something on the ground. The road is gravel, full of rocks. I pick up a few and examine them. Linda looks at Nacho and then at me and puts her arm around his waist. “He’s cute, a little weird but cute.” Linda suggests we should go for a ride. Nacho agrees and asks me if I want to go for a cruise. I get into the back seat of the Monte Carlo and I ask Nacho to drive by the city college. Linda turns on the radio and sings along with the song. We drive through the small town a few times; Linda turns down the music and asks me if I have a girlfriend. Nacho looks in the rear view mirror and asks the same question. “Rookie, do you have a girlfriend?” Nacho asks. Nacho and Linda laugh. I laugh with them, hoping that they will forget the question. “Well Ricky, do you have a girlfriend?” Linda asks. “No, I did.” 68 68

She turns up the music. She sings along with some Spanish song, Nacho joins in. “The song is about lost love,” Linda says. “Of course,” I say. I sit back and listen to the beat. Nacho tries to sing, but Linda, she sings well. They’re both a couple of years older, Nacho is twenty-four. I met Nacho at an AA meeting. I was court appointed for a DWI. Nacho went for the free coffee and to bum cigarettes. At the end of each meeting, Nacho bummed half a carton. I once asked him why he came to the meetings. He said that he had nothing better going on at eight in the morning and he gets his coffee and by nine he has smokes for the rest of the day. We drive past the college and I notice Nacho keeping an eye on me. I look out the rear window. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of the car and Linda singing. When I open my eyes, we are parked in the city college parking lot. Nacho and Linda are leaning against the car. “Hey Rookie, get out. Let’s take a walk around campus.” Even though we are around the same age, the students look at us as if we just appeared from the past. “Do you see her Rookie?” Nacho asks. “Who?” Linda asks “The girl Rookie is looking for.” Linda says she’ll talk to her. All I have to do is point her out. I keep walking; Nacho and Linda begin their search. They ask random women questions, pointing in my direction. The women shake their heads and continue on their way. After several minutes, Nacho and Linda give up their investigation. 69 69

I sit on a bench in the courtyard near the fountain. It is dry, shut down because of the time of the year. Scattered leaves line the base as a discolored scarf. A couple passes the fountain, the young man looks toward my direction. “Que hubo?” he says. I shake my head side to side. “Nada,” I reply. He continues to stare and the girl says something that I can’t hear. I look around wondering where Nacho is. The couple approaches, I stand trying to remember which one I offended in the past. Either way, I was probably going to fight. “You don’t remember me, do you?” I look at him and then at her. “No, no I don’t.” I take a half step back. He notices and raises his hands. “Hey, I don’t want any plato bro.” “Domingo, remember we were friends in the third grade?” he says. He extends his hand. I hesitate as I sift through the drunken haze of the last few years. I shake his hand. Now I remember, Domingo and I were friends in the third grade. We used to steal candy from the local drug store, until he got caught. I ran out the door. He never revealed my name and took a good beating from his father. “Domingo? Damn it’s been a long time.” “I know over ten years, I think.” “Where you’ve been?” 70 70

“Everywhere” he answered, “We moved to Seattle that summer. My father got a better job, so we moved. I thought that we would come back to visit. Things just didn’t work out.” “Shit, I would say so. So what are you doing here?” “My family moved back to the Lower Valley about a year ago. My dad is semi-retired. Living down here is cheaper than Seattle.” Someone shouts my name. I see Nacho and a Linda coming our way. “Who’s that?” he asks. “Some friends, nobody. Who is this? Your wife.” “No, this is my sister.” “No way, the last time I saw her man she was a baby.” “Yeah, we are checking out the school for her. This is Cynthia.” She says hello. She says she doesn’t remember me, but has heard some stories about me. I introduce Nacho and Linda. We talk about nothing in particular. Nacho asks Domingo for a cigarette. Domingo tells him that he doesn’t smoke. There is silence after this. Nacho pulls out a cigarette; he puts his arm around Linda and asks Cynthia if she smokes. She shakes her head and stands a little closer to her brother. “So how do you guys know each other?” Linda asks. I tell her that we were friends in grade school. She says, “Wow” and continues with her questions. Domingo and I take turns answering her inquiries. She then looks at Cynthia. “I like that shirt,” Linda says. “Thank you,” Cynthia responds. “We have to leave,” I say. 71 71

“I hope to see you guys again,” Domingo says as he shakes my hand. “Do you the name of the girl Rookie is looking for?” Nacho asks. “I didn’t know he was looking for a girl.” “I am not. These guys think that I am looking for some girl. I don’t know where they got that idea.” Nacho and Linda look at each other and shrug their shoulders. They laugh, say goodbye, and walk away. Domingo suggests that we get together at some other time. I tell him where I live, again, we shake hands. Cynthia waves goodbye. “You’re not still stealing candy are you?” Domingo asks. After dropping Linda off, Nacho and I drive around some more. The sunlight is fading fast. In the past we’d have bought beer and cruised and boozed until the sun came back. We drive to the next town, down the valley. The town is ten miles away, and there is nothing to see in that town, but Nacho and I don’t want to go home. Nacho stops at a Mini Mart. When he comes out of the store, he carries a six-pack of beer. “Hey, just because you don’t drink anymore doesn’t mean I don’t,” he says, as he enters the car. Two beers later, we see a group of people outside of the local high school. “Rookie, check it out. There might be some chicks there.” Sitting in the car, we watch people file out of the gymnasium. A high school basketball game has ended. Nacho is on his third beer. “Check it out,” he says. Two girls walk past the car. Nacho greets them and the girls laugh and reply, “Hey.” “Where are you girls going?” 72 72

They look at each other, the taller girl says, “Sorry, not interested.” “How do you know without taking a chance? Hey, this is my friend Rookie.” I wave hello, looking the other way. I don’t want to make eye contact. The girls walk away, laughing. Nacho calls them bitches. “Why didn’t you say anything, man? They probably think we’re jerks. What’s with the waving?” “I don’t know. I am not interested in those girls.” “Why? Is it because of the girl you’re looking for?” “What? Where’d you get that idea?” “C’mon Rookie, I saw that look.” His voice fades and I see his hands and lips moving. I see you in the crowd near the exit door. Even in the fading light, I see the glint of your hair. I don’t recognize the people that surround you. The crowd parts and falls behind you. You turn to face them and our eyes meet. I wave hello, hoping a bit of kindness remains. I cannot believe in you, yet we are the same. “What’s with the waving?” Nacho asks. “Thought I saw somebody I know.” “Where?” I point in the direction of the gymnasium. “There is no one there.” Nacho starts the car and he drives back home. He continues asking questions and I tell him what I can. After a time, Nacho hands me a beer. I look at it, the sharp red and white lines luminesce in his hand. I don’t say a word and Nacho shrugs. He opens the beer and almost finishes it in one drink. “What happened to you?” Nacho asks. 73 73

“Nothing,” I respond. I roll down the window and start throwing out the cans, one by one. Nacho keeps his eyes on the road and doesn’t flinch when I hit a stop sign with the last can. “You shouldn’t waste beer.” I say. He laughs when I tell him about the remaining beer at the bottom of the can. The next morning I wake to the smell of chorizo and tortillas. My mother is watching some game show on television while standing at the stove. As I sit down, she blesses me with some prayer from her people. She was born in a mountain village, as she is fond of saying, which makes her a child of the mountain fog. Whenever she tells this story, I wonder why she left. “Mom, not now,” I say, as I grab a tortilla. “You need to be more Mexican,” she says. “More Mexican, if I were more Mexican I would be selling chiclettes down by the exit ramp.” “Don’t be that way,” she says, as her hand slaps the back of my head. “What does that mean? More Mexican.” She pours café and sits down. She explains that in the mountains of Mexico, the juente must live on their wits. “Whatever they have is created by their hands or minds,” she says. I butter a tortilla, roll it up, and think about her words. Truth is I didn’t understand her mountain logic. Maybe, if I were more Mexican their meaning would resonate. Maybe, if I were more Mexican, I could rise in the air and float from place to place without worries, a true child of the fog. Maybe, if I were more Mexican, you’d still be here. 74 74

Someone knocks at the door. I scoop up the last bite of chorizo and papas. “Idiot,” she says. “What?” “Sorry mijo, I was talking to the T.V. Can you believe it? I would’ve gone for the car.” I see people happy, jumping up and down, hugging each other. Again, a knock. “Get the door,” she says. I turn down the television, open the front door, and step out before my mother’s voice hits the back end of the door. Domingo stands in front of me with a confused look on his face. “Hey, how are you doing?” I ask. “Good, I was in town and decided to come for visit. Wanna go for a beer,” he asks. “I don’t drink anymore.” The answer surprises me. Anymore sounds so definite. How do I know what will happen in the future? That’s the word she used, anymore. “You’ve forgotten who you are, I don’t know you anymore?” She vanishes from my mind. She disappears as fog in the coming light. Domingo stares at me. “How about a hamburger?” he suggests. “Sure.” I drive to the burger joint. Domingo sits in the passenger side, looking out at the landscape. I see he’s trying to remember. Things are different from his recollection. We are laughing when we pull into the burger place. My old friend is by my side and as we sit in a booth, I look outside and see my reflection in the glass. I see you standing behind me and when I turn my head, there you are.

SHEILA

Sisco orders another beer. In front of him, four empty glasses lie in a vertical pattern. The bartender sets the drink on the counter, making sure the empty glasses stay upright. Sisco drinks half the beer in one gulp. He wipes off the excess, dripping from his chin with his sleeve, and asks the bartender for a towel. For three days, he has sat in one of the local bars that line the street of his neighborhood. The bar is small, quiet, and dark with periodic sounds of hard cracking plastic mixing with English and Spanish words that echo in the dark cave as two Mexicans play pool by the door entrance. The bartender, who is at the other end of the counter, is talking to a woman in a faded grey tank top. Sisco moves toward them and asks for a towel. “Listen man, can’t you see I’m trying to work my magic,” The bartender says, motioning toward the woman with his thumb. “Um, yeah, sure, I just spilled some beer on the floor and I don’t want anyone slipping.” “Are you serious?” Leave it. It’ll dry.” Sisco shrugs his shoulders and sits at a table along the back wall underneath the dartboard with fading numbers. He watches people enter the bar. Most of them walk past him and sit on the stools, obviously regulars. After some time, he begins a conversation with an older fellow. The man’s fingertips are stained with the color red. Sisco can smell the strawberries, and in his beer, he sees rows and rows of the fruit. The dirt is no longer brown; it’s a mixture, a carnival of colors. Voices drift in the air and the sounds of cars and machinery follow the people, as they bow and begin the rituals. 76 76

The man tells him about his day. Sisco nods his head as he listens. He feels his own hands, they are soft, the hands of someone who sits at a desk. “Working the harvest, huh?” Sisco asks. “Yes, almost over,” the man says. “Who do you work for?” “McNary Farms.” “He’s a good man, treats his workers fair.” “You know him?” “Yes, I worked for him when I was younger and I went to school with his son.” The man orders another round and he walks to the jukebox and puts in a dollar. He chooses four songs, and as he approaches the table, the familiar sound of Ranchero music fills the room. A few of the patrons whistle and begin to sing along. While the music plays, Sisco and the man sit, listening to the song. The man begins to sing with fervor. Sisco smiles at the man and when the song is over, he finishes his beer. “Another round?” the man asks. “No, I got to go. I have some things to do.” “What is your name?” the man asks. “Sisco.” “No, what is your name?” “Olivera, Sisco Olivera.” At the mention of his name, the man ponders. He acknowledges that he knows the name. The two men talk about Sisco’s parents. Embarrassed by the man’s recollection, he tells the man that he has to leave. “Do you have a woman?” the man asks. 77 77

Sisco shakes his head no. The man laughs and pours beer into Sisco’s glass. “What you need is a good Mexican woman,” the man says.

When he enters the sunlight from the darkness of the bar, Sisco shields his eyes. It’s nearly five o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon. He squints before his vision adjusts to the outside. When the man spoke of the importance of having a woman, it reminds him of something his father had mentioned the previous day. His father believes that a man must have a family. Sisco didn’t subscribe to that notion. His father’s outdated sense of tradition didn’t appeal to him. In fact, he was attracted to white women. He leans against the building, trying to get his bearings. As he gains his balance, a woman walks toward him. She smiles as she walks by. She enters the bar. For a moment, the darkness and the light mix with the remnants of a Spanish song. He hears the man with the red fingertips before the door closes. He grips the door handle as he thinks of the fields of strawberries. He can feel the cold of the morning. The dew soaks his gloves and before he finishes his first row, his hands are cold and wet. Before the day is over, his gloves will consist of muddy fruit. Even with the gloves, his hands have a tinge of red. Sisco lets go of the handle and walks away. Cars honk at him, thinking he’s drunk or afraid to enter. Walking home he hears the past. Old songs, old commercials, and words that exist outside, beyond the warm reach of the sun, seep into his thoughts. His father stands in front the family. He reminds him that it is the duty of children to help the family. Sisco puts on the muddy, wet, gloves and continues with the day.

78 78

The following week, Sisco stands behind a woman; he listens, as she informs the clerk about the importance of a well-balanced diet. The clerk laughs and agrees with her. She picks up her beer, turns before she exits the door and smiles at Sisco. Caught off guard by the smile, he greets her, waving two fingers in the air. She stands in the open doorway and says, “Nice.” Following her out, he realizes that she is the woman from the previous week. He scans the area and sees her walking to the far corner of the parking lot, near the road entrance. Her car is silver, one of those foreign companies, he thinks, he never remembers their names. Her brown hair bounces in rhythm with her hips. She is gone in an instant and he walks home, wishing he knew her name.

He watches as the drink is placed in front of the woman. The bartender points toward Sisco, at which he raises his glass. “Thank you,” her lips say. The man with the red fingertips sits down and orders a pitcher of beer. He calls Sisco over. Sisco sees that the man is drunk and sits down on the opposite side of the table. The man continues to talk about women, as if their previous conversation never ended. They drink and talk until a heavy set Mexican tries to dance with her. Sisco excuses himself from the table and nearing the couple, he hears the word no. The heavy set Mexican laughs and continues to hug the woman. She pushes him off with both hands and tells the Mexican that he better leave. “Leave? I am her for you,” he says laughing. Keeping him an arm’s length away, she laughs with the man. Sisco now stands beside the woman and asks her if she enjoyed the drink. The heavy set Mexican stares at Sisco. 79 79

“Find your own woman, you have to work your way up to white girls.” Sisco takes a step back and punches him in the ear. He falls to the ground. The bartender comes from behind the counter and carries the man outside. “I was taught that it is rude to interrupt a conversation,” Sisco tells the woman “What if I was with him, would you have still punched him?” “As buzzed as I’m, sure.” She touches his hand and orders two beers. They talk for hours; the man with the red fingertips voices his disapproval. “You need a good Mexican woman, Olivera. One who knows you,” he says. She asks if the man is a friend, Sisco denies that he knows the man and suggests that they leave. For a moment, she looks around the bar. “Let’s have one more drink, and then we will leave,” she says.

They walk to Sisco’s apartment. He hesitates putting his arm around her waist. Asking his name, she moves into the embrace. He covers her mouth with his kiss. She laughs and positions his lips with hers. The warmness opens up to him. He grips the sheets with every heated thrust; she secures her legs around his waist. Sisco oozes the last of his juice onto her thigh. He wipes off the remaining drops with a pillow. “You’re sweet. By the way my name is Sheila.” After a futile attempt at conversation, they have sex again. When it’s over, she falls asleep and her deep heavy respiration became snores. Sisco sleeps for a few hours and wakes before sunrise. He looks in the refrigerator, trying to find something to make for breakfast. The only food before him is eggs and a bowl of 80 80 beans. He also finds three potatoes in the back corner of a shelf. Sunrays enter the kitchen while Sisco cooks breakfast. He smiles, as he is reminded of his mother cooking in the early morning light and the wondrous smells from her kitchen. “What’s that you’re cooking?” Sheila asks. “I am making some eggs mixed with potatoes and some beans.” She wrinkles her nose. “Do you have any pancakes?” Shelia stares at Sisco, and when she looks down, she notices a cigarette burn in the carpet. Sisco asks about her family, as he cooks breakfast. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters and my parents are alive, somewhere.” Sheila walks around the apartment, touching the sofa. “Are you done? I don’t like talking about what isn’t important.” “Your parents, your family isn’t important?” “Don’t judge me,” she says with a calm voice. “Sure, whatever. I am just trying to get to know you.” “No, there is no whatever,” Sheila says. “If you want to know, my dad sells everything from pills to stolen cars. I am sure you know something about that. He sells a lot of things and my mom was one of clients.” Sheila opens the door and walks out. Sisco follows her and puts his hand on her shoulder. She turns around with anger. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You sure are,” she says, as she shoves his hand off her shoulder.

WHAT MEDICINE

I was never quite the same after a good friend of mine passed away. Passed away was a nice way of saying died. He killed himself. Suicide, a hard word to say because what was the difference? My friend was gone and that was that. Did it matter who was at fault? Death was innocent; death was a messenger with a strong voice. My friend spoke of death with a soothing voice, as if he were talking to a girlfriend at three in the morning. “What do you think death is like?” He often asked. I laughed and pretended he was joking. He always laughed too, but reflecting back, there never was a smile in his eyes or on his lips. Many things have been challenged since his passing, which consoling words cannot heal. My parents suggested that I return to church, they believed it would heal my soul. True or not, death was boisterous and God was silent. I didn’t see a reason for saying a prayer or lightening a candle, because it was over. I reasoned that tradition and beliefs had no answers. They swayed in the wind, hoping to find a home. I met Dario Casares in the city park. He sat on the bench, reading a book. When I walked by, he said, “Hola.” I looked around and realized the hola was directed at me. He spoke in Spanish, but when he saw my hesitation, he spoke English. We talked for a few moments. He asked what I thought about the city. I said it was okay and asked what he was reading. He displayed the title. I tried to read it, but it was in Spanish and I didn’t read or speak the language. He explained that the book was written by a Chilean author and that he, also, was from Chile. I was intrigued. I hadn’t met anyone who was born outside the Yakima Valley. We talked for a few more moments, and then he suggested some books to read. “Don’t you ever wonder why we believe in such nonsense,” he said. 82 82

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said. He set the book down and asked what I thought about life. I didn’t know how to respond. “It’s better than the alternative, I suppose,” I said, “out of all the places to pick, why did your family pick living here?” “My father works in the vineyards, he likes working in the wine,” he said. His father wasn’t a laborer. He came to Washington to work for an upstart winery, Holt Cellars. My father worked for local dairies and farmers, wherever there was work. We continued to meet in the park, and he would try to explain the literature he read. He talked about different worlds, death, life, ghosts, mirrors, and tigers. I must say, I didn’t understand half the shit he was talking about. “It’s in our blood,” he said. “What’s in our blood?” I asked. “All these things we talk about,” he said. “Sorry man, but I don’t understand all this third world stuff,” I said. “One of these days, I am going to find out what is real,” he said with a smile.

It’s been six months since his passing. Six months since he jumped off the Vernita Bridge. Sometimes, when I cross the bridge, I can hear his voice. “I see. Look, mirrors and ghosts, who will catch me?” he asks. He believed in God; although, I always felt he believed in the Devil a little bit more. His last girlfriend asked me if believing in God led to believing in the Devil. I told her people tend to believe in God and know the Devil. He once told me about a story he heard on the news, it was about a boy who went into his school and shot three people, injured four, and then shot himself. 83 83

“Does someone like that even know how to laugh?” He asked. Confusion abounded on his face, he watched television with the same intensity he gave literature. He didn’t understand why there were no stories on the news that made people laugh. “People are dead and they don’t even know it,” he said after the news broadcast.

Many of the people I associated with were turning twenty one. I had four months before I became official. Dario was twenty two, and looked much older. When I introduced him to some of my friends, they asked him if he was old enough to buy beer. Drinking alcohol in his garage brought on many subjects, which in turn brought laughter and anger. Many subjects ignited his anger toward God, The Devil, aliens, and whomever. His anger manifested into throwing beer cans at whatever got in his way and he’d shout at things no one else could see. His anger would subside, he’d smile, and then laugh with his head rocking back and forth as if agreeing with somebody. One night, I found Dario in his garage, praying. The door was opened and I heard him ask for answers, I figured he was talking to a mutual friend; I looked in the garage and saw him on his knees. When he heard my entrance, he stopped praying. “Who are you praying to?” I asked. He contemplated the question, and for a moment, I thought he was going to hit me. “I don’t know, I am still trying to figure that out,” he said. “There are only two choices,” I said. He looked at me with sadness in his eyes, as if the question had wounded beyond the physical. 84 84

“You haven’t learned anything from all the literature that I’ve shown you. Haven’t you read any of the books I’ve suggested?” I was embarrassed. I didn’t even try. When he talked about his literature, I nodded as if I liked what he read, but I couldn’t grasp what many of the stories were about. One story I remember, the whole book was about some guy looking for his father who was dead, and in the end the son was also dead. Dario said that the story was about voices from the past and their importance. “No, sorry man I can’t get into them,” I said. “It’s in our blood; it courses through our veins like medicine, just think about it. You’ve been to church; I know you see beyond what we have.” “What’s this we and church stuff?” “C’mon paisa,” he said. He didn’t say anymore after that. We watched television and he taught me some Spanish words. We joked about having a party in hell with all our friends. It was fun and we laughed, I wondered if it was real.

When I was in grade school, my parents took my sister and me to church. We went so often that we learned the names of all the apostles and even more impressive the names of all of the elderly people who sat in the front row of the congregation. My sister and I went to all the plays, summer camps, and all the potlucks that had food we neither craved nor ate. I stopped going when I graduated high school. I guess I was too old for that kind of stuff. “Why didn’t you go to church with your sister?” my mother asked. “I don’t want to go anymore.” “Why, you’ve been going and you like it, so what’s going on?” 85 85

My Mom began to scramble the eggs in a hurried motion, as if we were on a time limit for our talk. “Mom, I’m eighteen years old and a high school graduate, I figure I can make my own decisions. Besides, I don’t think God hears my prayers.” She sighed as she served me my breakfast. “Thanks mom, besides you and dad don’t go to church anymore.” “I know that is why we took you guys because we didn’t want you and your sister to be like us. We wanted you guys to be better.” “Better than what?” She rubbed her shoulders for no apparent reason as she looked out the kitchen window. “Better than memories, better than whispers of heritage, we wanted to give you a foundation, a moral base to build your life on. I never had that growing up; I had to learn what I believe by trial and error. I guess it’s every parent’s hope to try to make their children’s lives a little easier than their lives.” She never knew the life they built, the easier life, created a sense of entitlement. The world owed me and who could take it away? My father entered the kitchen and scanned the room, as if he were in a hotel lobby. He poured a cup of coffee and observed the wall clock. He walked out of the kitchen without saying a word. My mother shrugged her shoulders and collected the crumbs off the table with her right hand, sweeping them into her left hand. The television set was on as I entered the living room. Nobody was watching television, so I began to change the channels with haste, as if I had somewhere to go. I looked outside and noticed the sky had a mixture of blue and gray. It was a virtual civil war. The sky in its solitude was busy entertaining clouds in all their beauty and ugliness. It was Monday, the day nobody liked. A constant 86 86 reminder that time was moving forward with or without the weekend warrior. I had to get a job or hobby to keep my mind busy or I would eventually become a bum or worst yet, a sidewalk poet. Could watching the history channel be considered a hobby? May be not, I guess there are only so many shows about Hitler that can be watched. If anyone asked me questions about Hitler I’m sure I had an answer.

It was in the seventh month, after Dario’s death that my father decided to speak to me about his passing. I was in my room listening to music with the television on. He entered the room after an extended amount of time knocking on my bedroom door. I was surprised by his entrance and nodded hello. My father observed the posters on the wall as if he were in a museum. “What do you need?” “Well, I wanted to talk to you about what happened to your friend and how you’re doing. I know death is not easy to deal with, but don’t you think it is time to get along with life. For the last several months all you do is sit in your room.” Wow, after seven months, this was the best he could do? What would he suggest next milk and cookies? Anger swelled in my stomach and my arms, anger all over my body. What did my father know of death? The only death he knew was in the five dollar western paperback books he collected. My father with his perfect wife, his perfect house, his perfect, my father with his perfect life thought it was time to get along with life. I sighed and hoped my anger would escape. It didn’t. “Time to get along with life? What do you know of life and death?” My father stared directly into my eyes. “Do you know how my friend died; do you know how he spent the last moments of his life?” I asked. 87 87

“No, I don’t know that,” my father said. His answer aroused my anger to another level, the level where family become strangers. “Let me tell you then,” I whispered. I rummaged through the closet and pulled out a letter Dario had left me the day of his death. It was addressed to My Friend, Jury, and Judge. “I’m going to read this letter that he wrote and then tell me if you understand. Tell me it is time to get along with life.” “You don’t have to do that, I just wanted to help.” “Help with what? Are you worried that I’m going to kill myself?” “Son.” “Answer me”! “The thought had crossed my mind. You stay in your room all day and I wonder what you’re doing in here, son you’re so young and life is only beginning. Your whole life is in front of you.” “So was my friend’s life,” I answered. I didn’t know he had written a letter until his mom delivered it weeks after his death. It took another several more weeks before I actually read it. “You said, I have my whole life in front of me, don’t you think that my friend thought the same thing? Hell, I didn’t know he had problems like that. We talked about things, real things. He loved life, and that’s why I’m having a hard time, I don’t understand how easy it was for him, and he liked to talk about religious things. We talked about God, heaven and hell, he believed in God and actually liked him, he also believed in the Devil and kind of liked him too. We talked about girls and friends, everything, and now we won’t talk anymore that’s what I’ll miss. He once asked me, “Where do you think we go after we die?” I told 88 88 him I had no idea and it’s true I have no idea dad; he could be in heaven or hell. In church they taught us that when a person dies he either goes to one or the other. Where a person goes depends on their relationship with God. Why does church try to put fear in people? If God is God then he already knows what is going to happen to us.” “Son, I don’t know too much about church stuff, you know more than me. I remember the stories you used to tell me when you got home from church. Sometimes stories are just that, stories. What I do know is you’re alive and your friend isn’t and I know it hurts but that is the truth. Your friend killed himself and you have to deal with it. Whether he is in heaven or hell that is between him and God and it is not for me to judge. I would like to think we all go to heaven but I don’t. I’m sorry but my concern is for you, here and now. A man must be responsible for his actions, he will eventually be judged.” “I think you’re right but I’m afraid.” “What are you afraid of?” my father asked. “I’m afraid of waking up one day and truly believing in the stories.” My father slowly sat down on the edge of the bed and put his hands through his hair. He was concerned and I felt sorry for him, because I wasn’t in any way concerned about him. I knew my father’s perfect life would continue and it would seep through my clothes and into my skin, under my skin until I forgot how to truly feel. Whenever I cried as a child, he put his arm around my shoulder and said, “C’mon now there is no crying, laughter is the best medicine.” What medicine? I didn’t need medicine, I wasn’t sick. I put the letter back in the shoe box, and closed the closet door. “That’s it,” my father said, as he quickly stood up. I nodded as if I understood, but I didn’t, and never would understand. 89 89

* * * The month that followed deepened the indifference between my father and I, like Grand Canyon deep from top to bottom. I sometimes hear my friend’s stupid laugh in a crowd of stupid people, his laugh sounded like a donkey on helium. Burro, burro, where did you go? I saw him in the stance of a stranger; I heard his words in the line at the grocery store. I saw him in a movie on the Spanish station telling lies to the senoritas and the senoritas believing him. Time is not my friend. I found a job at a twenty four hour restaurant. I bused tables and sat people from ten at night until six in the morning. It was only temporary until I had enough money to move to another city. Any city would do, as long as I didn’t have to walk the same streets that my friend and I used to walk. One night before my shift was over I saw my old minister come in with a group of people. They sat in a corner booth and I wished for the clock to move faster so I wouldn’t have to talk to him. He was a nice man and a good minister if that meant anything. When the clock had hit straight six, I gathered my things and walked out the exit door. I felt relieved as I walked to the parking lot. Then, I heard a familiar voice call out my name. “Hey, hey, how have you been? It’s been a long time, do you work here?” “Yeah, for now, just trying to get enough money saved up to move out of town.” “Wow, that’s great, any place in particular?” “Nah, anywhere, as long as I get away from this town, the town has kind of lost its charm.” “Well, good luck, maybe you can come to service before you leave.” 90 90

“Thanks, but I don’t think so, I’m not into all that faith, church stuff anymore.” The minister laughed long and deep. His rubbed his two arms as if cold. “That’s too bad, I know all that stuff can be boring, but God isn’t boring.” Did he say God isn’t boring? How does he know? Does God tell him jokes or does God actually answer his prayers? I rubbed my eyes. God never answered my prayers. “Did you hear about my friend? He died. I prayed God would give me answers, but I never heard anything, I don’t think he hears me.” The minister looked toward the restaurant and then looked at his watch. “Let’s take a walk.” We walked up the street and he explained that God’s voice was in everything and all I had to do was distinguish his voice. He pointed at the sky and the clouds, the trees, the mountains in the distance, and at the people walking and driving. He said God had a hand in every aspect of life and people needed to slow down and open their eyes and ears, so when God did reveal himself we would be able to see and hear him. He asked about my friend and I told him about our conversations and about his stupid laugh. I told him he committed suicide. He jumped off a bridge, trying to find the real. “I’m sorry to hear about your friend. Sounds like he knew God or at least about him, is that fair to say?” “We talked about a lot of things, we laughed too. Listen, I don’t feel like talking anymore, I’m sorry, but I got to go.” “Sure, one more thing, God does hear you.” I smiled. I saw Dario walking down the street, floating in the swirl of plastic and leaves. To get my attention, the minister extended his hand. 91 91

“There was a time I would have believed you.” I said as I shifted my weight from foot to foot. “My father said laughter is the best medicine, maybe he’s right and I should go through the rest of my life with a chuckle in my voice and a smile on my lips.” I walked away without another word and heard the minister shout. “Do you think our meeting was a coincidence? God heard your prayer.” As I walked, I listened for God’s voice. There was no burning bush to my left or to my right and my friend was still dead. God was silent. I wondered if God smiled when he looked down on his creation or was like us and learned to tolerate it.

A PLACE CALLED HEAVEN

“Be careful,” the last words I heard from my wife as I descended into the cold water of the Pacific Ocean. In retrospect, they were the last words I heard from a human being. I’ve been confused ever since I died; I guess that’s the label put upon a body when it is no longer warm and cogent. I prefer missing person. Missing person sounds better than dead. And how can I be dead if I am missing? I entered the ocean with the hope of coming out a new man. My mind and body fused into one and no longer worried about the insignificant problems of the world. The initial scuba lessons took place in a swimming pool, and this was my first solo dive in the ocean. I never feared the water. It was pure and cleansing, a magnificent purification. My instructor, Neil Harris, commented on my calmness and what appeared as an enlightened demeanor, even at the time when Neil said his ritual prayer. I wasn’t a spiritual man and I didn’t believe in any form of religion. I was raised with myths and legends that infiltrated every aspect of my family’s life. There was a candle for every sickness and prayers whose words sounded as a chant. I believed death was real and so I bowed my head, closed my eyes and said nothing. I wanted to appease whoever as long as I got back safe. “You ready to go, Paul.” “Yeah, and you know what Neil, I never felt as ready for anything in my life. It feels like, like I don’t know what, but whatever it is I feel good.” Neil smiled and gave me the thumbs up sign. Neil was a good man, and I hope he’s still teaching people how to dive. He was a patient man, and all his students had a great respect for him because of his patience. Neil took great joy in sharing his knowledge and experience in diving. Some of the students had the 93 93 knowledge but lacked the courage to follow through on the solo dive. It really wasn’t a solo dive as one would use the word solo; Neil would be in the water with me. Neil dived with all of his students for safety and as he explained it, “Even if fifty people are with you in this immense ocean, once you go underwater you are alone,” so hence solo dive. My wife stood next to his wife. Their teenage son shook my hand and his limp handshake didn’t instill confidence. We entered the water at twelve thirty pm and at three pm I was presumed dead.

Neil pointed to his left wrist, then to the surface. I indicated that I understood with the nod of my head and we began to resurface. I noticed a large school of fish swimming below me, and I stopped to watch. They swam in unison as if one mind, they moved as one large beast. The color and size of the fish mesmerized and I didn’t notice that Neil had disappeared. I looked up and saw the surface in hazy light as if looking at the sky through an empty plastic bottle of soda. I couldn’t move. I looked down and saw endless darkness. There was something in that darkness that I recognized, something familiar. The darkness felt inviting. A small point of light reached up through the darkness. I tried to swim to the surface, but my arms and legs had the motion of a sloth. My inhalation was painful. I resigned myself to death. She had overtaken me. There had been many times in my life when I thought of death. When I was a teenager death was someone on equal terms. Death was someone I could fight. In my twenties, death and I were still of equal strength. Now, in my thirties, death had become stronger as if she had been working out. I was a seed and she had the strength of a mother. My mother choked me within her embryonic state. With my last gasp of breath, I looked down into the darkness that was speckled with light. I smiled and said 94 94 goodbye, and then I closed my eyes and drifted down. She had overtaken me and when I awoke, I was alive.

Neil knew Paul was dead. Still, he prepared to dive again in the hope of finding his body. Paul’s wife was crying and shouting incoherent words. Neil’s son looked bored. Neil never lost anyone when diving and the thought of Paul’s body, the thought of Paul alone crept into his mind. Alone, alone in a place where there was nothing but time and deep coldness. Neil searched until his lungs burned and then resurfaced. The fresh air no longer had the same crisp taste or the same crisp feel he remembered. The water, he loved, had taken his student without a warning, without a goodbye, taken him with no regrets and no admonishment. The bright sun hovered over the water as if unaware of Paul’s death. Neil waved off his son’s hands. He stayed in the water, looking down for his friend. “Neil, say something, did you find him?” Paul’s wife asked. Neil shook his head no. How could he tell her that they may never find Paul’s body? How could he tell her that Paul just vanished? His body should be underneath, surrounded by water. But his body wasn’t there, his body was gone and Neil didn’t know why. “What happened to my husband?” Paul’s wife earlier incoherent words became quite clear and Neil didn’t have an answer. “I don’t know. He should be there but he isn’t. He was right behind me. I don’t know what happened. All he had to do was follow me and he would’ve been okay. Maybe he got caught or tangled up in something, maybe a shark. But, there’s no blood in the water and usually if there is blood.” He stopped short of saying what he believed. Paul’s wife stared into the water no longer uttering a sound. 95 95

* * * When the light engulfed my body, I didn’t feel any warmth or any sense of comfort; in fact, I didn’t feel anything. There was no tunnel of light to walk toward or through, there was only light that didn’t blind. The light was separate, controlled, and yet the light overwhelmed me. I no longer thought of death as someone to fear. Death was no longer death; she didn’t move in darkness. She moved in pale light with neither warmth nor strength. I awoke in a room that resembled a doctor’s office. The room was decorated with small jars of instruments and smelled of sterilization. My body prone, I waited for my wife’s knee to my ribs indicating it was time to wake up. I felt no knee and thought I had more time to sleep since my ribs where still intact. I stared at the ceiling, polished to an inch of being a mirror. I smelled flowers or some type of perfume. My body was neither cold nor hot, and my fingertips pulsated with the beat of my heart. I gradually moved my arms and legs until I was standing on my feet. My toes felt the cool floor. I looked at my body and realized I had no clothes on. I wasn’t embarrassed and continued to scan the room. The room was massive with similar tables. I lost interest after I counted fifty tables; I estimated there were at least three hundred tables in the room. The walls were inundated with strange symbols. They were in a horizontal pattern as if some sort of language. Strange beast like creatures adorned the walls with several eyes and wide open mouths. Star like shapes were above the heads of the strange creatures, and shapes that resembled weigh scales adorned the right and left hand sides of the beasts. Divergent lines connected the symbols. I continued to scan the walls. So intense was my scrutiny that I almost didn’t see a recognizable shape. My air tank sat on the floor by what looked like a door.

96 96

The boat entered the bay. It was quiet. There was no sound, nothing, but a mechanical hum. Everyone on the boat stared into the darkness. Neil’s son didn’t know what to do or what to say; he agreed to come on this trip with his father in order to please his mother. His father’s passion was diving and his students. It was hard for him to have any feelings for anything or anyone associated with his father. He didn’t wish any harm on anyone but what was he supposed to do pretend he cared. He was hungry and craved a cheeseburger, he knew his father would be busy with the police or whoever investigated things that happen in the water. He felt his father’s stare and he slowly turned and met his father’s gaze. Neil moved toward his son. He put his hand on his son’s shoulder, and when his son didn’t respond, he removed his hand. Neil whispered a prayer, “God give me the strength; shine your light on this darkness.” Neil promised, to no one in particular, to spend more time with his son. “Are you okay son? I’m sorry that you had to be a part of this, this accident.” Neil’s son forced a smile and stepped onto the dock. The moon’s reflection illuminated the area, which brought comfort to him. Neil’s wife walked with her son and Paul’s wife. The police and other authorities entered the harbor. Neil stayed on the boat. The authorities questioned each individual. As the police approached, he replayed the second dive in his mind. He went over every second, every moment; still, he didn’t have an answer. His friend Paul disappeared. He contemplated the light, wondering if the authorities would believe him.

“You are not dead, you are alive,” a male voice said. I looked around the room; but failed to find the source of the voice. I heard the rhythm of my heart. I remembered the stories that I heard throughout my life. I 97 97 came to the conclusion that I was in purgatory, waiting for the day when St. Peter opened the gates. “Paul you are not dead, you are alive. There is confusion in your mind and no doubt you have many questions. We will do our best to answer them.” I tried to remain calm but fear overtook my heart. I looked for my clothes, searching the room in a chaotic fashion. “What are you looking for Paul? Whatever your needs, we will provide.” The voice was comforting, yet I was afraid. In my understanding of the afterlife, I envisioned streets of gold, angels, and white robes. I don’t remember anything about stainless steel walls and metal floors. Time passed, and what seemed like hours had tired my body and so I slept. When I awoke, I was in another room, a smaller room. There were clothes, in a neat bundle, beneath my feet. I put on the pant, shirt, and shoes. “What kind of heaven is this?” I whispered. “This is not heaven and you are not dead, you are alive.” “Enough! Where am I? If this isn’t heaven, then is this hell?” “We have heard of your heaven and of your hell but you are in neither. You are in a place that is far beyond your comprehension. We have been underneath you for all of time. We have witnessed the very things you do not want to acknowledge. It is fitting that you have conjured up this heaven and hell. In order for you to cope with what has been done, there has to be some place for reward and punishment.” “But, I haven’t done anything; I was diving, enjoying the beauty of the ocean.” The voice didn’t respond. I shouted at the ceiling, walls. I shouted at the entire room, and still, there was silence. I decided to try and decipher the markings on the wall. There was an answer in those markings, in that language, at that I was 98 98 sure. The voice didn’t communicate for what seemed like days, I lost track of time and didn’t crave water or food. “Paul, you are now ready,” the voice said. I didn’t know what I was ready for but I didn’t care. “What am I ready for? What kind of heaven is this?” “Why do you assume this is your heaven?” “Because, I don’t hunger or thirst. Other than a being prisoner here, I feel safe.” “We receive those when needed and have done so since the beginning of your time. We have taken many and we are what you do not understand. We are more than myths and legends. We allow these stories to be told because the truth would frighten you.” I didn’t understand the voice, but I no longer cared. “Paul, go through the door,” the voice said. The door opened and I took a step out. I saw a long tunnel with light fixtures about every thirty feet. “Where am I going?” I asked. “You are going to work,” the voice said. “Work, what kind of work will I be doing? I know I have to earn my wings.” The voice laughed. “Paul, you will work for us. This is our world and we need workers to help maintain our way of life. Your job is to do what we ask of you. The world above no longer exists for you. For generations, all those who disappear in our waters have not died. We have need of workers and take how many we desire. You will 99 99 work down here in our world until the day you die and then you can go to your heaven. Now, move forward, they are waiting for you.” I looked around the room as the door closed behind me. “There is no escape Paul, accept it,” the voice said.

Six months passed since his death. She read the name on the gravestone. Paul Santiago was her husband, lover, and friend. His family left flowers every Sunday. On one occasion, his mother told her that Paul was now part of the Earth, a spirit of energy that will bless the water and the air. She didn’t believe her. Paul was in heaven. She bent down, removing leaves and bits of paper. She smiled, happy in the knowledge that her husband was in a better place.

DOMINGO

I watched my breath come to life as I sighed; it was going to be another cold morning. I was never a morning person, in fact, I don’t even like to wake up until after one in the afternoon. But for the last two weeks I’ve had to wake up early to go to work. I quit high school and working in the grape harvest was the only job I or should I say my father could find. My mind was never in school and my body just seemed to follow. High school was a joke. There never was much learning going on, at least not the right learning. The teachers would go through the motions and had as much life as a piece of stale bread. The day my mother moved out of the house, and then out of town, was when school became school and it was no longer fun. My father argued school was for learning and was not meant for fun. Yeah, this coming from a man whose idea of fun was to sit in his car and kill a twelve pack of beer, as he listened to the radio and relived his high school days. Every day, every day, it was always every day. Was this my destiny? To listen to my favorite radio station when I’m old and pretend I had an okay life. I was convinced that everyone in school was getting too serious. What college do I want to go to? What do I want to be? Being serious, who cares? “Okay, everybody out,” my father said, as he parked the car. “Domingo lets go. Time to work; you said you didn’t need school, so now it’s time to hacer hombre. Time to be a man.” My father never said anything when I told him I was quitting school. I remember we watched television that day. We watched the station that showed the classics. “I see no reality in these so called reality shows, these old shows have something to say,” my father said. The classic television station had my father’s favorite shows, and it was just about the only station he would watch. He liked, 101 101

The Brady Bunch, Leave it to Beaver, Gilligan’s Island, and I Dream of Jeanie. There were several other shows but those were his favorites. My father said that the shows of the past had meaning. He really liked the fathers, Mike Brady and Ward Cleaver. They were the names of the characters and his role models; to bad my father never modeled his role. If you know anything about those shows then you can see why I was expecting some kind of Ward Cleaver or Mike Brady speech. You know the kind, where everything makes sense, the kind of speech where Ward or Mike makes everything all right, but he said, “Well, what are you going to do now?” Maybe I would have thought about my decision a little bit longer if I had heard that Ward or Mike speech. My father and I were never close and our conversations consisted of, “There is somebody at the door for you,” or “The phone it’s for you.” My father was a quiet man. I always thought this was strange because my father was intelligent, and when he did speak; he always had some words of wisdom or at least words that flowed well. When I was younger he spoke and now he just talks. He wasn’t book smart and he didn’t graduate high school, but he had a vocabulary that made you believe he had some type of education. I remember the way my father used to talk to my mother. He would look up as if for answers and then spoke with a regal confidence. He was almost like a knight, yeah almost. Sometimes, I try to remember his voice but something blocks my memory, something, words maybe. The morning sun slapped my head and woke me up. In my dreams, I heard my father’s words. The words had a spine. And now I only hear vowels and consonants. That was why I thought I was going to get a great speech. His speech would be about sacrifice and how he had to walk in the snow ten miles just to get to the bus stop. Then, he would say something like, “I wish I had all these 102 102 opportunities when I was growing up.” Well, maybe deep down in that special corner of the heart set aside for moments, I hoped. I guess some of us are born to hear great speeches and some of us are born to clean up the room after the speech. The speech never came. The bitter cold brought me back to the present. If my mother hadn’t moved out of the neighborhood things might be different. The neighborhood was family, friends, and even a few enemies, but it was home. It had the feeling of zipping up a jacket on a cold winter day. The grape field began to awaken as other families arrived and parked their cars. I saw fathers; mothers, brothers and sisters, entire families. I recognized some of the people. I knew this wasn’t just a job to them, it was their survival. I remembered my father’s words, “What are you going to do now?” Well, school wasn’t that serious or boring and at least it was warm. As I cut my first bunch of grapes, I saw my breath. I knew as time passed that the day would get warmer. I hoped. “Hey grape boy, hey Domingo, what’s going on?” The voice startled me as I stood in line at Bill and VI’s, our local corner market. My purple fingers held onto a dozen of eggs and a Snicker bar. The store was in the center of the neighborhood. It was made of brick and painted gray with posters of beer and cigarettes adds in the window. The floor was worn and in the back of the store, near the freezer and cooler, it was always darker. The door made a nice jingle sound when opened. Bill the owner gave advice whether it was asked for or not. If you believed him, he had seen it all and done it all. His wife Vi sat behind the counter and smoke cigarettes like she was on death row. “What’s the happs Bobby? How was school today?” Bobby Chacon was my best friend. He was smart, outgoing, and had a hint of arrogance. Bobby was the kind of guy who knew he was cool and never had to 103 103 say it. At least that is what he told me one day after school when we stopped to watch Bill put up a new beer poster. “It was all right, same old, same old,” Bobby said as he smiled at Vi. “When are you coming back to school?” I stared at my shoes and wished they were moving instead of standing still. “Yeah Domingo, when are you going back to school?” Bill asked, “If you want to know my opinion.” “Bill, I really don’t want to hear your opinion,” I said. Bill looked at us for a minute, and then he turned around and went back to watching I Dream of Jeannie on the small television he kept behind the counter. I felt bad for an instant. Then I remembered the look Bill gave us when we were younger, the look that said you don’t belong. “Man that was cold blooded,” Bobby said, as we walked out the door. “He’s only trying to help you out.” “Well, I don’t need his help.” “Everyone needs help.” “I don’t. I’ll get by. I just need some time.” “Get by? Domingo if you don’t figure things out that is all you will be doing. Guys like us need all the help we can get and school is one way we can get that help.” “There’re plenty of people who are successful who didn’t go to school.” “Yeah, by what picking grapes, when you don’t have opportunities you take what life gives you and then you just exist and forget about living.” A blue Chevelle passed by as Bobby’s words educated the air. I listened to the music coming from the Chevelle and tried to remember the name of the song. The car passed and so did my recollection. 104 104

“Bobby, you’re getting too deep for me, next thing I know you will be petting squirrels. Besides, I might not be picking grapes much longer, Diego offered me a job.” Bobby shook his head in utter amazement. Bobby’s face was in discomfort as if someone had just run their finger nails down a chalkboard. Diego Perez owned the neighborhood car wash and it was rumored that he bought the business with drug money. He was ten years older than me, but he always seemed much older. My father drank beer with him on occasion and was one of the few people who appeared his equal. “Domingo, the guy is bad news.” “How do you know? And don’t tell me that was what so and so said, they’re just stories and rumors of the neighborhood. The streets only hear, they never see.” “Ever since your moms moved, you’ve.” “Don’t talk about my mom, she’s gone and that’s that.” Bobby turned his head toward the right as if looking for someone. There was truth in his statement. Bobby was never afraid to face truth. “Why did she leave? You never told me.” “She had her reasons,” I whispered. I couldn’t tell Bobby the real reason she left, I couldn’t understand it myself. I want a new start was what she told me. A new start that’s what you tell the track coach, not your son. I guess she deserved a new start after the life she had. My mother and father were never married. They were both still in their teens when I was born. I lived with both parents, growing up. As I entered my teens, my parents went their separate ways. I lived with my father, because my mother’s apartment was too small for the both of us. I slept at my father’s house but lived 105 105 with my mom. He never said a word about the breakup. My mother was young and some people thought we were brother and sister. That was the way we talked too, like brother and sister. I could talk about anything with her. We talked about girls, cars, and who was dating who. I never talked about these things with my father. The man was intelligent, but he never talked. I didn’t miss my father, I missed his voice. As Bobby and I walked in silence, the sounds of the neighborhood surrounded us. Music came from all directions, doors slammed, and mothers shouted for their kids to get home. We passed the Rodriquez house and gazed at the local statue. The local statue was a1970 Chevy Nova. It’d been in their yard so long that it became a neighborhood landmark. The caretakers were three brothers, Mike, Chukas, and Dodo. Every day they worked on the car and drank cheap beer. “Hey fellas, what’s up?” Bobby said. “Bobby, Domingo, what’s going on?” Mike said. Mike was the oldest of the brothers and the smartest, which wasn’t saying too much but at least he could speak in complete sentences. “Not much, just chill’n like a snowman.” I looked around and tried to comprehend their determination. I wondered if this was what life was all about. “Hey you guys want a beer, Chukas, hey mudo give them a beer.” “No thanks man, the last time I drank one of those beers I got flu like symptoms,” Bobby said. “How about you Domingo?” “Na, that cheap stuff gives me a rash.” “Ah you guys just don’t have a backbone.” “Backbone? That cheap stuff will eat up your backbone.” 106 106

Mike shook his head from side to side and then looked at the ground. “Domingo, Domingo, Domingo, you better get used to drinking this stuff.” “Oh yeah why is that?” “Well, you’re young, Mexican, and you’re a high school dropout, plus word has it you might be working for Diego, this is your destiny my man.” “No way not me.” “That’s what Chukas and Dodo said, now look at them; they drink this stuff like it was their job,” Mike said as he held up his beer like a proud father. “Yeah, well not me,” I whispered. “Listen guys we gotta go, we’ll check you out later.” “We’ll be waiting for you Domingo,” Mike said with a grin. The sound of their laughter faded as we walked down the street. “You know, Mike is right. He did make a good point. If you don’t go back to school that’s what will be waiting for you.” “Give it a rest; hey I’ll give you a call in a couple of hours.” “All right take it easy.” As I walked toward my home I saw its loneliness. There was no music, no smell of food cooking, just a house waiting to be lived in. I entered the house and shut the door behind me and stepped into silence. My father wasn’t home but that was normal. I turned on the television and lay on the couch. Leave it to Beaver was on. I fell asleep and dreamed I was the Beaver and Ward was my Dad. “Hey Domingo let me talk to you son. You know when I was a boy we lived by a family who was, how should I say this? Well I guess they weren’t the best people. They uh… they did things differently. They always seemed to take the easy way.” Dad do you mean they were bad people? “Well, son I guess you can say that, anyway their easy ways finally got them in trouble. They had a son and he 107 107 had to go live in a foster home because of his parents taking the easy way, do you understand? Well what about…” The sound of someone knocking on the front door woke me. I cursed as I walked toward the door. In my dream, Ward was about to finish one of his cool speeches and everything was going to be all right. The knock had no rhythm. A bird finished his song, as I opened the door. “How are you doing Domingo?” “Diego, how’s it going? What are you doing here?” “Just came to see if you were still interested in my job offer,” Diego said as he combed his hair. He looked sharp. He had nice clothes, a nice car, and a sweet house that wasn’t even in the neighborhood. He lived on the hill where the rich people lived. Diego was one of us but his money made him one of them. Them that drink coffee with lids, them that drive SUVs, them that say some of my best friends are, you know them. “Well, I haven’t really thought about it.” “What’s there to think about? Do you want to work in the fields the rest of your life?” “No, but I don’t think I want to wash cars either.” “You don’t have to wash cars; I got other things you can do.” “I’d like to think about it a little more; don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the offer.” “Esta bien. That’s good. That’s a sign of intelligence when a man has to think. I’ll be back later on tonight and you can give me your answer.” “Orale, okay, I’ll see you later.” I closed the door and wondered what Diego meant by other things. Bobby said Diego was bad news but how bad can someone be with a sweet looking car? I 108 108 decided I needed something to eat. I couldn’t make a decision on an empty stomach. Ham and eggs always helped silence my stomach and awaken my brain. As I struggled with the refrigerator door, a loud thump reverberated from the front door. I walked to the door and stopped as I heard a muffled voice. The voice emitted pain as it spoke my name. “Victor? What are you doing man?” Victor Cordova was our neighborhood bum. Drugs and alcohol had overwhelmed Victor, and he no longer put up a fight against the twin devils. Victor was popular in high school. He had girls, a nice car, and dressed well. Then, after high school, he just disappeared. He reappeared a few years ago and has played the part of our neighborhood bum with expertise. I thought there were no such things as bums or poor people. Victor changed my mind. When I encountered him, I turned around and walked the other way. Yeah, it is a shame we have to grow up. “Domingo, how, how are you doing?” Victor asked. “Victor, bro, I don’t have any money.” “Didn’t come for money, I was walking by and saw Diego drive off and was kind of wondering what he was doing here? Did he, you’re not thinking about working for him are you?” “Victor, I don’t think it is any of your business.” “I got something to show you.” “I was just about to eat.” “It won’t take long, just come and follow me,” Victor said as he stumbled. “C’mon it won’t take long.” “All right, all right lets go.” We walked for a few blocks. Victor mumbled to himself as we went along. He walked with his arms folded. Every time I saw Victor, he appeared to be cold. I strolled along in silence. Victor stopped in front of an old abandoned house. 109 109

“Is this what you wanted to show me, a shack?” “No, what I want to show you is inside,” Victor said while rubbing his arms. “Are you all right, you cold?” “Always cold, always cold Domingo,” he whispered. Victor was harmless, but I was alert and nervous when we entered the shack. There was dust upon dust and the dust bunnies had turned into dust rhinos. There was a small army cot in the right corner and books everywhere. The air was visible and the rays of the sun blasted through the cracks of the wall, it looked as if it was raining rays of light in the small shack. “Are these all your books?” I said with a tone that even surprised me. Victor nodded as if he was too tired to answer. Victor looked around the room as if for the first time. He stumbled over a box. As I wondered what I was doing there, Victor found what he was looking for. “Yeah, this is what I wanted to show you.” He handed me a notebook stuffed with papers. “Go ahead Domingo open it.” I held the notebook as if it were rotten produce. I opened the notebook and astonishment filled my eyes. The paper had a tinge of yellow on each corner and was beginning to fade. It was a college degree. “Pacific University, you graduated college?” “Yes, that’s what I wanted to show you.” “Why?” “Because I was once like you, full of life, full of energy, the world was mine” Victor said. “What happened?” 110 110

“Diego, Diego is what happened. I was like you. I was fresh out of college and he offered me a job, you know just till something else came along. I said all right, thinking it would be nice to have some money while I looked for a better job,” Victor paused for a moment, “Then when I told him I was going to quit and that I wanted to use my education, he said fine. Diego said he would even have a party for me,” Victor paused and closed his eyes. “Victor, Victor you all right?” “Yeah, just tired Domingo, just give me a second.” I looked at Victor with pity. I could see the youth in his eyes but his body was old. I was only seven years younger than Victor. I opened the notebook and flipped through the pages. The pages were dated and most of the writings appeared to be poetry. I liked poetry. I found one poem with a recent date and read it. Hear me, see me, but know that I’m there People walk through life as if they are in a trance Open your eyes and see things that may astound, see joy, sadness and even ugliness. Choices will be up to you, so choose what to be Open those eyes and look in the mirror, if all that fails, remember you still have your ears. “Wow, that’s not too bad; I didn’t know you wrote poetry, in fact, I would’ve put money on that you couldn’t even spell poetry.” “I don’t think of it as poetry, I like to call them thoughts. Domingo listen to me, you don’t want to get involved with Diego, unless being like me is your goal.” “C’mon Victor, I don’t even do drugs and Diego is not that bad of a guy.” “No, you’re right, he’s worse, this is what he is,” Victor said as he unfolded his arms. 111 111

He showed me the needle tracks that went up and down his arms like broken roads. He looked into my eyes and without words I understood. When Victor disappeared it wasn’t to another town, it was to this life. “Drugs Domingo, man they got a hold of my soul and they won’t let me repent, estoy cansado, I’m tired, I’m going to lie down now.” “Okay, I’ll see you around,” I said. As I walked home, I thought of my mother and father and the words that were never spoken. I heard my mother’s laugh and my father’s voice. Maybe I’ll talk to my father. I mean really talk to him, not only saying the words but meaning them. I also thought of Victor’s words. I remembered what Sandra Cisneros wrote, “They say of the poet and the madman we all have a little.”

THEY OPENED MY EYES TO THE TRUTH

I closed the car door with a quiet click. The day was warm, but the temperature would drop as it always did at this time of year. It was late October and my parents and I had come to the Oliveras’ house. We moved to Warrenton two months ago and I had yet to make any friends. Warrenton was an hour from our previous home. It was an old looking town with painted bricks on most of the buildings. The downtown area echoed of success in a distant past. Old faded signs with names that didn’t match the existing business were fixed above and aligned the sides of the buildings. My father had been transferred to help with the declining sales at the local Fed Mart. He was the victim of his own success, his reward was this town. My father was the store manager and Tony Olivera was the assistant manager. Tony and his wife, Ofelia, became friends of my parents and they had a son my age. So it was only natural that he and I would become friends. I didn’t have many friends and the kids at school weren’t friendly. The students huddled together in small groups before and after school. They had their clicks, which I being new to the school didn’t belong, and they weren’t shy in letting me know that truth. I imagined the Oliveras’ son knew that truth and this was the reason for our trip, not because my parents wanted to see their friends, but to help their son make a friend. Tony and Ofelia came out of the house as we approached; Tony looked older than my father and was taller with a mustache and long sideburns. Although he appeared older, his voice made him sound younger; he also acted younger than my father. He punched my father in the stomach and his laughter erupted in small, 113 113 quick bursts that ejected from his belly. His enjoyment of life was apparent, his laughter echoed off the side of the house. I grinned without showing teeth. Tony’s wife, Ofelia, hugged my mother and father; she looked at me and smiled. I stood back and rubbed my arms. The parents walked toward the house and I followed as slow as possible. “You know my son goes to the same school that you do. Do you know him?” Ofelia asked, as she kept the door open. I shook my head no in a way that feigned interest.

When I first saw him, he was reading a book. The book was tattered and frayed; it had been read to its marrow. I asked him, “What are you reading?” He looked up from the pages, and his focus was above my head, as if someone more interesting stood behind me. His eyes returned to the book and he said, “A book by Bolano,” as if everyone knew that name. He continued to read without interest in who I was or what I was doing there. He finished the page and extended the highly warn book towards me as if feeding a pet. “The Romantic Dogs,” I said. “Yeah, it’s poetry.” “Poetry,” I laughed. He became silent and took the book from my hands, gently. Obviously, I had offended him. He sat back down and continued to read and never said another word. After a few minutes, I gave up on the conversation and sat down, facing the television, hoping he would take the hint; instead, he shifted in his seat and began to read out loud. He shouted the title of the poem and then, in a calm voice, almost a whisper as to not hurt the words, read. He read with such emotion for a person who sat in a worn out red recliner. He finished the poem, closed the book, stood, 114 114 and faced me. I didn’t know what he wanted, so I got up, poised, ready for whatever came. He then began to recite the poem in Spanish, his words were musical. His voice and hands were in concert allowing the words a new life and although I understood some words, this new life lingered for a moment and then was gone. He put the book down, reciting the poem by memory. He finished the poem with his hands in the air. He sat down; the veins in his hands were noticeable, as he gripped the armrest. Seconds passed, as the minutes mixed with the laughter of parents in the next room. He cleared his throat, looking to one side of his body and then the other. “Umm, I guess you like that poem?” “Yeah,” he answered with his eyes closed. “I never heard of the guy. What kind of name is Bolano?” “Same as yours if you think about it.” I nodded in agreement, although, I didn’t know what I endorsed. The book slipped off the arm of the recliner. He reached for the book and then paused with his hand hovering over the book. He grabbed the book with slow intention. He began to read with his lips moving and without voice or sound. I went outside and sat in the car and waited for my parents. That was my introduction to Octavio Olivera.

His mother entered the room about half an hour later; she scanned the room and approached my chair with hesitation. “Where did Elijah go?” she asked. She had a very soothing voice with smooth, cream colored skin, which no doubt allowed her to be the object of desire in her youth. Elijah’s mother waited 115 115 for an answer, I continued to read. I didn’t understand what she wanted. She focused her eyes on the pages of the book and sighed, I closed the book. “Mrs. Morales, do you know Bolano?” I asked, as I waved the book over my head. She appeared somewhat confused with the question. “No, I can’t say that I do,” she said with a questioned look in her eye. “Do you know him?” she asked. “Yes, yes I do,” I responded. “He is from Chile. He wrote this book and several others, in fact, I have talked with him on several occasions. We discuss many different subjects, but the main subject is about the search.” She thought about what had just been said, indicating a person with some capabilities of understanding the fortunes of those who search. It was there for a moment, and then her eyes focused in on today, and it was gone. As she left the room, she mentioned Elijah’s disappearance. A few minutes later, my mother appeared and asked about Elijah. Never the disappointing son, I pointed to the door and suggested that they take a look outside. My mother’s voice lowered, so that the other adults couldn’t hear. She didn’t understand my aversion to making friends. She wanted me know that Elijah was a nice boy, someone my own age, not some old writer or character in a book, someone real. I mentioned that many characters in books were based on actual people. “Well, try to make friends, miejo, okay. These are nice people and their son is a good kid. Octavio, did you hear what I said?” Friends, no one wanted to be my friend; I spent lunch time with the things people would say about us. Kids stayed away from me because I was different. I read at lunch time and ate food that wasn’t recognizable. The school security guard made an effort to talk to me when he walked his rounds during the school 116 116 day. He was an interesting man who had once been a policeman. He was Mexican, but didn’t speak Spanish. During lunchtime, he stood in front of a big green dumpster. He said it was a good spot to watch kids milling around the campus. Once, after breaking up a fight, he mentioned he was tired of it all. He asked if I comprehended. I nodded in agreement, as I tried to read the letters tattooed on his right forearm. “Octavio, I have noticed that you don’t spend time talking to anyone.” “I talk to you, Mr. Reyes.” “Xander is my name. When you call me Mr. Reyes I feel old. I have a question for you. Who do you talk to when reading your books? I’ve noticed someone by your side. Last week, I saw something strange, you were sitting on the bench reading with those two, I think? Maybe it was my eyes, but I swear they changed shapes.” I was quiet; I hesitated in response to Mr. Reyes’s question. His calm demeanor seemed a bit shaken, as he awaited a reply. There are brief moments in a person’s life that change the perception of life, a snapshot of a memory, which will shed light on previous unanswered questions or will endure in the mind as a ghost of something that was once tangible. This wasn’t one of those moments for Mr. Reyes and I. Xander, a name which was uncomfortable to say, didn’t press the issue and in the ensuing days and weeks he never mentioned the incident again. He continued to talk despite his discomfort. How could I tell him that our history was alive? It walked and talked with me. The spirits echoed a tormented past that flowed beyond the borders of an imaginary line. They opened my eyes to the truth and lies of being a Mexican. Elijah walked in the door. He inquired about the television. Hoping to end this attempt for friendship, I handed the remote to him. We watched music videos; 117 117 the women on the videos caught Elijah’s interest. He changed channel to channel; he searched for something that could hold his attention. He continued in this manner without saying a word. When he found a station that televised professional wrestling, he set the remote down and with a sideway glance smiled at no one in particular. A fan of wrestling, I spent many days and nights enjoying the beat downs and the interviews of my favorite wrestlers. Elijah oohed and awed as he watched the match. The Four Horsemen were my favorite wrestlers. Throughout the years there have been many men who have called themselves horsemen. But, in my opinion, the best lineup was Ric Flair, Arn Anderson, Tully Blanchard, and Barry Windham. They had all the championship belts, money, women, and they did the best interviews in the business. The words of Ric Flair were poetry and Arn Anderson’s interviews were both dangerous and cerebral. I enjoyed the fact that they could back up their words with their physical strength. They destroyed their opponents with their words, which few wrestlers had the ability to do. Elijah turned and struggled with his words. I didn’t know what to expect, so I stood up. “Do you like wrestling? Octavio, right that’s your name?” “Yeah, I like it.” “Who’s your favorite wrestler?” “I like Ric Flair and the Horsemen.” He nodded his head in approval, as he turned to watch the television. The wrestlers were some mid- level card guys, they were the wrestlers that always got beat up by the superstars, but sometimes they wrestled each other, which filled in time on the television show. The match we watched wasn’t exiting. One of the wrestlers, whose name I couldn’t remember, stumbled around the ring. His motion 118 118 was awkward, not fluid, and his moves were clumsy and unprofessional. Even their grunting and talking didn’t sound real. I tried watching but found no patience for the two wrestler’s performance. They lied to their audience. The match ended with the clumsy wrestler winning with a sleeper hold. I wished that I could put some people to sleep. Or write a poem with the title, A Sleeper Hold for Two. Elijah continued to change channels with a nervous motion; he feigned interest in many different shows, even the Spanish stations. “Do you speak Spanish,” I asked. “No, but I understand some words when they speak Spanish. How about you?” “Yes, you heard me read but I can also write it.” Elijah listened to the actors. He concentrated and mouthed some of their words. “They’re talking fast, what are they saying?” Elijah asked. I listened for a few seconds and moved my head forward as if interested. The characters were discussing the virtues of another character, a woman whose mother had died at birth and father was a no good drunk. Yet, despite all the setbacks in her life, the woman grew up to be a successful business woman and CEO of one of the country’s major clothing companies. The male actor was the woman of virtue’s husband and the female actress, in the scene, was his lover. They began to kiss, as the woman of virtue entered the room. Elijah was taken by the show, and he began to ask questions in rapid succession. Who was that woman? How long have they been having an affair? Why were they having an affair? Were they going to get a divorce? I tried to answer as best as I could but never having seen the show, the answers were on the verge of lies. I didn’t know what to tell him, I embellished with what I imagined the story to be. 119 119

Elijah listened, as I told him that the show’s story was taken from an old Mexican tale. In the tale a Spanish soldier married two women, one of noble birth and the other a Mayan princess. She didn’t know that she was a Mayan princess. The woman of noble birth, threatened by the second wife, devises a plan to rid herself of her competition; the gods have mercy on the Mayan princess. They helped her because they found truth in her heart. Elijah looked suspicious. “Did you lean all that in that one scene? That is a lot of information. I think you’re full of shit.” “Well, I’m just paraphrasing of course. A few Spanish words can have deep profound meanings.” Elijah thought about what had been relayed. He then commented that he understood a few of the words and he didn’t believe what I had told him. “Then why did you ask if you knew the answer?” He shrugged his shoulders and changed the station. We sat for a few moments watching a cooking show. Elijah’s father entered the room with all teeth showing. The drink in his hand spilled, as he raised it to his mouth. It was apparent that Elijah’s father didn’t have the endurance of mine when it came to drinking. He spoke with a slight hesitation and chose his words carefully. He tried to talk faster, which then made it impossible to follow his words. Elijah placed the remote on the television set and walked over to him. They conversed in whispers and movements of hands. Elijah’s words didn’t damper the mood his father had achieved. Elijah’s whisper became louder and louder, his voice pronounced the words with clarity. He wanted to leave. He didn’t like this kid and the weird way that he spoke. His father reassured him that they would leave soon, but in the meantime try to make friends. Elijah needed no 120 120 reassurance, what he wanted was to leave the room, the house. There was nothing appealing in the moment that allowed him beyond the thought of Octavio’s strangeness. His father spoke into his son’s ear with a firm hand on his shoulder. His tone loud and clear left nothing to imagine, he finished speaking. He walked over to Octavio and grasped his hand. The firm handshake surprised Octavio. Elijah and Octavio, anticipating words, stood at attention awaiting the acknowledgement of the father. He let go of his hand and stared at the left and right side of Octavio. The sight wasn’t unusual. He had seen them before. He turned toward his son with wonder in his eyes and thought of his youth. Elijah stared at the television, unsure if the things had somehow materialized from the Spanish station. “Are you okay dad? Elijah asked. His father nodded yes, remembering the many traditions and stories of his youth. The stories of old men and women around the labor camps revisited. He stepped back and remembered the special ones that lived in the mountains. They, according to some of the elders, protected the people with their knowledge and their strength, which allowed them success against the enemy both seen and unseen. The old ones told of the many different shapes and forms drifting about the land. He remembered an incident when he was a young man, not much older than his son. In his town lived a boy who spoke of things that were beyond the comprehension of young people, the boy spoke of the beauty of lies. No one, not even the adults, understood the boy.

121 121

One day, Elijah’s father seeking shelter from the heat went to swim in the river. The boy sat on an outcropping of rocks. His fingertips touched the surface of the water. The sound of the water silenced his approach. The boy wasn’t alone; two undeniable forms hemmed the sides of the boy. He stood for a moment and watched. The forms were stationary, they didn’t move. He approached the boy; the forms now appeared to float. They were now strings of smoke that drifted sideways. A strong breeze skipped on the water leaving lines on the surface, watery footprints of something unseen, he thought. They spoke of inconsequential things. He didn’t know if the two forms truly existed. He decided that he would ask the boy, he would make sure of his sanity. The boy, sensing his apprehension, jumped in the water. The water separated into many different parts. A splash, wave, and a small drop lived for a moment and then calmness. He watched the boy go underneath the water, unsure if the forms would reappear, he backed away from the edge. He heard the songs of the birds, their sounds loud and strong celebrated an unknown occasion. The air, quiet and warm, didn’t move. Unnerved by the stillness, the hairs on his arms straightened. A circular feeling of dread took hold in his stomach just above the belly button. He shivered at the shoulders. The boy’s head breached the surface, rising into the world where air stood still and birds sung in exaggeration as if afraid. The boy asked his name. Elijah’s father responded with hesitation, “Julio Morales.” They looked at each other, Julio’s eyes moved to the sides of the boy. “What is your name?” Julio asked. “Juan Amador, at your service.” 122 122

There are no such things as ghost, Julio thought. Were the stories true? His grandfather told him stories about the drifting people of the mountains. He paid no heed to his grandfather’s tales; they were stories of the old times. Juan had heard the same stories of the drifting people of the mountains. “You are wondering, wondering many things. Asking, can it be?” Juan said. Julio couldn’t find the words and the words he managed to utter were unintelligible. A jumble of half spoken words and nervous laughter exited his mouth and throat. “Are you afraid, Julio?” “No, should I be?” “I will try to explain, although I’m not sure what they are.” “Juan, I’m not sure either, but I do see something.” Juan reassured Julio that he did see something, though he didn’t know what they were or what they were called, he acknowledged their presence. They didn’t come every day and sometimes he didn’t see them for weeks. At first, he was frightened. He wouldn’t sleep alone and slept outside with the many animals his family had acquired. After a few visits, he was no longer frightened; he became annoyed when they appeared. That was when he began to call them his forms of deception. “Are they supposed to protect you? Have they ever attacked you?” Julio asked. “They have never attacked and I don’t know what I need protection from.” “Maybe from yourself, Juan?” Juan didn’t answer and stared at Julio, hoping he wasn’t the only one that had unknown things at his side. 123 123

* * * Elijah apologized for his father’s behavior. He tried to explain what his father meant. Octavio had no interest in explanations, he liked Elijah. The strange comment about the people of the mountains intrigued Octavio; he wasn’t aware of the story and wanted to hear more about the people who drifted. Elijah’s mother shouted that they were leaving. Elijah assured Octavio that his father tended to say and do strange things when he was drunk. Octavio had his back to him. As Elijah began to speak, two misshapen forms hovered by Octavio’s side. Octavio tilted his head down and to the side, listening with attention. The shapes were solid; they couldn’t be mistaken for ghosts or aberrations. They were white in color with a slight hint of blue in the middle of what would be considered their body. There was no sound in the room. Elijah heard the emptiness that captured the room. “Are you afraid, Elijah?” “Kind of, although I’m not sure why.” “They appeared one day and haven’t left.” The shapes pulsated, their color changed. They became darker and darker, until they seemed to consume all the light of the room. Octavio and Elijah transfixed didn’t move. “What are they?” Elijah asked. “I don’t know, but they’re kinda cool.” “How long, how long?” Octavio explained that they had appeared when he was eight or nine. Why they appeared was another question. Their first appearance was after two of his classmates beat him up. 124 124

His classmates told him that dirty Mexicans didn’t belong in their school. He ignored them as his mother suggested; they made fun of the food he ate. He never had peanut butter and jelly or bologna sandwiches, what was bologna? He ate flour tortillas with chorizo and eggs, potato in the middle. He loved his mother’s homemade tacos and sometimes shared with some of the other kids who didn’t bring lunch. His mother always made him more than enough; she also made sure he had fruit with his lunch. The two classmates, Richard and Jeremy, were his friends, he thought. Richard’s father was white and his mother Mexican. Jeremy was white as Casper; Octavio had even shared his lunch with Jeremy. He didn’t understand why they were picking on him. “We know you understand English, dirty Mexican,” Richard said. “Leave me alone Richardo,” Octavio said. “Richard, my name is Richard. I’m not a wetback like you.” “Then your mother is also a wetback, because she’s a Mexican.” Jeremy laughed at Richard, which made him blush and angry. “My mother was born in the United States not Mexico like your mother that’s why she’s not a wetback, so you better shut up.” The two boys were silent. Richard stomped on the brown bag that held his lunch. Jeremy stepped back, unsure of his next move. He stood silent and watched Richard punch Octavio’s face. Octavio bled from his mouth, nose, red knuckle marks dotted his temple. Other children surrounded the boys, some shouted encouragement, some laughed, but no one stopped the beating. The bell signaled the end of lunchtime. Jeremy grabbed Richard’s arm, telling him they would be late for class. 125 125

Octavio wiped his mouth with his hand. He picked up pieces of tortilla and fruit, leaving some of the chorizo and watermelon for the birds; he threw the rest in the garbage. He entered the restroom and splashed his face with water. His reflection was sad that his mother’s lunch had been lost. Was he so different from Richard? He wiped down the sink knowing that he would be late for class. That night, he told Elijah, the two forms appeared. He touched the forms, their temperature alternated, they were cold then warm, warm then cold. He floated between them, hovering in a black place. He saw the kids from school surrounding someone. Moving closer, he saw an unrecognizable body. The kids moved in a single file line, following each other. They walked with neither happiness nor sadness but walked with a content look on their faces. Their legs moved in unison. He wasn’t sure of their destination, they moved in silence and followed whatever led them. He called out; one of the boys moved his head sideways as if understanding. They marched to the edge of the world and then they were gone. His hand massaged the lump under his left eye. The kids were not his friends although their pretense was real. They lied. Now, he would have to lie, pretending everything was okay.

Elijah couldn’t wait for his parents. The glowing things disappeared when Octavio finished with his tale. Elijah’s parents were in the middle of saying goodbye for the twentieth time. “Well, do you think they’re real or are we both under some kind of influence?” Elijah said looking around the room. “They’re real, if real appears and disappears, vanishing when it wants,” Octavio said with a calm voice. 126 126

Octavio had seen them many times. There were moments he wished he was crazy. The crazier the better, but the truth he possessed was stronger. The two young men stood facing each other. Elijah continued to wait for his parent’s final goodbye, his eyes focused on the sides of Octavio. The laughter of his mother ended with a shout for Elijah. His father couldn’t be heard. Elijah thought he had passed out and he would have to help Tony carry him to the car. As he exited the room, his father entered. Having no words for Octavio, he shook his hand, hard and forceful. Then he proceeded out the door.

ICARUS LIVES

Ofelia sat in the back seat. She thought Tony’s father drove faster than he should. Houses, trees, sky, blurred by as he sped back home. The blurring landscape passed in deformed figures, faster and faster until her thoughts drifted out the window, joining the outside world that didn’t care. The short visit allowed for nothing but a few hopeful words that couldn’t sleep in her arms or enter her with a reminder of things spoken in darkness. She would endure. Nothing could change the situation; nothing but time and that was all she had. “He’s not worth it, you know,” his father said. “He’s your son,” Ofelia said. “I know. But he hasn’t changed. He’s still the same,” he said. “He’s different. I heard something in his voice. He’s trying to be true, trying to remember who he is,” Ofelia said.

Tony entered his cell with the intention of surviving the next six months. His cellmate lounged on his mattress, reading a book. He looked up at Tony. “How was your visit?” he asked. “All right,” Tony responded, taken aback by his cellmate’s inquiry. His cellmate never spoke more than two words at a time. The question surprised Tony and his mind raced and body tensed. He shifted his weight from the heels to the balls of his feet. In this place, the first thing he learned; be alert to change. The guard’s voice echoed as they walked the cellblock, shouting headcount. His cellmate got up and looked out. Knowing the guard would be at their cell in a few minutes, he spoke fast with one breath. 128 128

“Imgoingtoleavethisplace,” he said. “What?” What did you say?” Tony asked. He breathed through his nose and whispered his revelation. “I’m going to leave this place,” he said. The guards, a cell away, shouted instructions that each prisoner knew. The guards appeared at the entrance of the cell. Their eyes scanned the room and then the men. Tony and his cellmate stood as they were taught to do. When the guards disappeared down the walkway, Tony told his cellmate that he didn’t want any more information. The doors closed with a clang, tucking in the prisoners for the night. The lights flickered off, and the two men left alone with their memories laid down. He didn’t trust his cellmate. Tony waited for the sound of snoring before he closed his eyes. He waited, but the sound never came. Again, his body tensed. His hands were in tight fists, the nightly ritual within the concrete bricks. His eyes heavy with sleep blinked with urgency, then slowed and fell into rhythm with his breathing. A hand touched Tony’s shoulder, and though he had run this scenario in his mind, it surprised him. He punched his cellmate’s face. Not wanting to notify the guards, his cellmate grunted with pain. Tony cursed with clenched teeth and readied to punch again whoever or whatever was in the darkness. Tony’s listened to the quiet, smooth decibel of his voice. For a moment, his father was telling him a story, brushing his hair aside as he kissed his forehead. Tony’s eyes adjusted to the dark, which allowed the figure to come into focus. There was no doubt that death would come for him in this place. Tony felt his eyes on him. What happened within the concrete couldn’t be defined as life, rather, survival in its most raw form. Alone with their thoughts, no words were 129 129 spoken between the two men. In the darkness, memories existed that allowed them a sliver of humanity. His cellmate told his story. Tony realized that his cellmate wouldn’t be silenced with understanding words or threats, so he listened. He went on about the wife left behind and with certainty the openness of her once closed legs, which he understood. Between the pauses of breath, a directionless scream captured their attention. Tony understood many things were done in order to survive, but he tired of giving, He wanted to live without any demands. He wanted to be real. The outside always took and took. There would be no more giving; he would take what was his. “They always catch you,” Tony’s words entered the darkness. His cellmate didn’t respond. Tony thought of his freedom and wanted no part of what was being implied. He had six more months and he planned on making it. The screams and cries of grown men took form after the lights disappeared. He knew things were created in this place. Locked up with these men, the screams and cries were prisoners that would never leave. They were home. This place would never be his home, and he wouldn’t let it make him scream and cry or do unwanted things. Tony didn’t pray because God lived in prayers, which Tony no longer had. His cellmate slept a sound sleep, dreaming of a strange mountain and the strange people that inhabited the mountain.

The next morning, Tony’s cellmate revealed his plan. Tony warned him that he wasn’t someone to trust. If pressed, nothing stood in his way of going home, including his cellmate’s delusional fantasies. 130 130

“You wouldn’t say anything, you’re just like me. Dreaming of home and what we left behind,” his cellmate said. “No, I live in the real world and there is no way out,” Tony said. “It’s just because you’re young. Wait till they tell you that this is the place you belong,” he said, “Before long you believe it.” “How do you plan to get out of here? There are guards everywhere. There is nothing we do without someone watching,” Tony said. His cellmate agreed that someone was always watching, and he tired of constant eyes upon him. He told tony that he floated when he dreamed and now it was time that he lived his dream. “What do you mean float?” Tony asked. “It’s just something that I dream about. I see these things, like people that float around this mountain. Most of the time their smooth when they float, and then sometimes they float like a piece of plastic in the wind,” his cellmate said looking toward the door, awaiting the evasion of the guards. The march to the morning meal began, the men walked passed their cell talking loud and laughing at whatever made men laugh in prison. Tony’s cellmate continued recalling his weird dream of floating. Tony left his cellmate. He was hungry and though the food tasted of seasoned cardboard that had been left underground, the distinct, old, musty smell imbedded within every inch of the food was better than nothing. He thought about what his cellmate had said, as he ate. He didn’t look at the food; he ate fast, never quite looking at the tray. He scanned the room for his cellmate. Tony talked with a young prisoner; they were the same age, which didn’t make them friends just the same age. Their conversation consisted of a handshake and a “What’s up.” Tony spent the first hours staying away from his cell. If his 131 131 cellmate launched his escape, he wanted no part of it. When he went back to his cell, a nervous, charged up cellmate exercised on the floor. Tony waited until he finished counting before he entered. Although he wanted no part of the escape, he wondered if leaving was possible. The thought consumed him. He wondered if escape was the only option. “How are you doing it?” Tony asked. “Do you read much?” he responded. “What?” “Do you read? Have you ever read the story of Icarus?” Tony was ashamed that he didn’t know the story. His cellmate explained. The story wasn’t familiar and whether he paid attention or not, men couldn’t fly. Many things happened in prison without reason, but for a man to fly through the air, up and up, finding freedom in the embrace of the sun wasn’t possible, it wasn’t real. “The son was stupid and didn’t make it, but the father, now, he was smart,” he said after he finished telling the story. As his cellmate explained his plan, Tony listened with reservation. The plan was inventive, but not practical. How can a man jump off a roof and soar in the air and glide over a wall with a razor sharp edge along its top? “Let me get this straight, you collected feathers and glued or somehow joined them together?” Tony asked. “Yes. I have been working on this for a while now, even before you got here,” he responded. “This is crazy man. There’s no way in hell that you’ll be able to fly. If you make it to the roof and that is a big if, the feathers won’t hold you up. The only 132 132 thing those feathers will do is cover your body when the ground breaks your fall,” Tony said. “It’s going to work; I can float like a spirit. I’ve seen it. If for some reason it fails at least I can say I tried,” he said. “You tried? You won’t be saying anything, you’ll be dead. Do what you want, but leave me outta it. I have something to live for,” Tony said. He reflected on Tony’s words as he watched a fly float through their cell and then out the door. “You’ve got it backwards, I want to live, I don’t want to survive anymore,” he said. Tony stepped down from his bed. His cellmate had his eyes closed. “You know I never trusted you. Not because of any reason, I don’t trust anyone. But, do what you want, I’m not helping you. Good luck,” Tony said. His cellmate smiled. “Tony, there is something inside you that understands what I’m doing and a part that wants to go,” he said, opening his eyes with the last word. Two men walked by their cell, one in front of the other. Their voices were mumbled. Secrets, Tony hated secrets. He wished he never heard about this stupid attempt of escape. Floating, his cellmate talking about floating, no one can float. Yet, he dreamed of flying and was afraid of understanding. “When are you flying out of here,” Tony said with a grin on his lips, not laughing but wanting too. “Tomorrow and I don’t care who you tell,” he said. Tony thought for a moment. “I won’t tell anyone,” Tony said, “If I wasn’t leaving here in six months I might even go with you.” 133 133

“That’s if I let you,” he responded. They laughed and forgot their place. Even though he would never admit it, Tony respected his cellmate. “Before you go into the great yonder, answer this question. What is your name? I know your last name, but I never got your first name. Sorry, just didn’t care about making friends in a place like this. No one is real here. Everything is backwards. Lies are truth; everything is turned up all over the place. You know what I mean?” Tony said. “I know. We lose ourselves in this rat hole. I never wanted any friends in this place and still don’t. Those dreams, the ones I told you about, the ones with the floating people or whatever they are made me think,” he said. Tony rolled his eyes. A fly entered their cell and landed on his cellmate’s hair. Moving in a straight line, the fly climbed to the top of his head. Then a second fly landed on his shoe. Noticing the fly, his cellmate tried catching it with his hand. The motion disturbed the fly on his head and both flew out the cell in a smooth line, one after the other. “So do you think this Icarus guy regretted his decision? I mean, I think he would see the ocean getting closer and closer,” Tony said. “Naw, I think he enjoyed every moment. When do you ever get a chance at true freedom? Look at this place. He took his chance even after all the warnings. Feeling that clean unspoiled air on his face must have felt great. Sometimes going for it is the right decision, whether people believe you or not,” he said. His cellmate no longer spoke and rolled on his side. A sign of trust or he longer cared. When the cells remained open, prisoners learned to sleep on their backs or they slept with their backs to the wall. Though the prison was labeled as 134 134 minimum security, the acts conducted within the walls were not minimum or less than any other rehabilitation center. Tony never witnessed rehabilitation.

Tony stepped out of his cell and walked down the metal steps. He sat down on a red plastic chair. He sat alone; the three other seats were empty, reflecting light off the cheap, hard, shining plastic. A few hours before the guards rounded up the prisoners, he contemplated on flying. Some men sat at the other tables, while others stood. They amused themselves with whatever. They were watching television, talking, planning something shady, whispering commands. Sets of eyes collected information. Tony witnessed it all. He shifted in his seat. Men laughed at the television, while Tony watched some of their sincere smiles on their faces that reflected contentment. They laughed at certain moments, they talked during the commercials. He heard voices of men that had no intention of leaving the four walls. Comfortable with their situation, they feared the outside. Fat Moe approached Tony and sat down on the empty seat across from him. Fat Moe was a thief that enjoyed stealing. Tony smiled at the thought of that fat pig entering a home through a window. The cops caught Fat Moe hanging upside down from a window, one of his pant legs caught on the broken glass. Too fat, he couldn’t reach over his stomach to free himself. The cops and the neighbors laughed for a few minutes before the policemen put him in handcuffs. Fat Moe ran his hands through his hair before he spoke. Tony held his laughter, Fat Moe considered himself handsome. The two men nodded in recognition. “Heard you’d be getting out soon,” Fat Moe said. Tony was quiet. He wondered what the man wanted. “Yeah, in about six months,” Tony responded. “Wanted to ask a favor,” he said, as he looked at the guard. 135 135

“Man, I don’t want any trouble. I just want out of here, clean and clear,” Tony said. Fat Moe put his hands on the table and squeezed them into a fist, then let them go. He tapped the table with one finger. “I need to get a message to my sister. Just a message nothing else,” Fat Moe pleaded. “Write a letter,” Tony said. The guards ordered the prisoners back to their cells. “We’ll talk later,” Fat Moe said, as he walked away. Tony hoped not. He stood and looked in the direction of his cell. His cellmate observed from the platform. Tony closed his eyes and rubbed them with his hands. His cellmate floated a few inches above the platform. Tony turned around searching for some conformation. No one seemed aware. Other inmates passed his cellmate; they turned their heads as they noticed the floating cellmate. Without any regard to the raised man, the inmates continued into their cells. The guards shouted at Tony. He moved up the stairs, taking the last step, as two ghosts like figures followed his cellmate into the cell. He hesitated, provoking the two guards. The guards stood behind him, they shouted and shouted, accumulating saliva in the corner of their mouths. As they moved Tony into his cell, the floating objects disappeared as smoke. The guards acknowledge the objects with slight nods of their heads. “What the hell was that?” Tony asked. No one answered. The guards warned Tony about his attitude and the amount of time until his release. They left; one of the guards patted his partners back. The cell locked, the single light bulb lost its brightness. 136 136

Tony couldn’t sleep. His eyes scanned the room looking for things that were not there. After a few hours, Tony’s eye lids became heavy. He fought the urge to sleep. Troubled with what he witnessed, he succumbed within his dreams. He succumbed to a force that ransacked reality with its brutal hands, latching on to his shoulders with gnarled twisted fingers until white and black fingernails drew blood. Within the chaos an outline of large hills took shape. Tony was before a mountain contoured with smooth and jagged stones. He knew it was a dream and tried to wake. Something held his arms, as he tried to power out of the dream. The mountain had various things floating all around. The forms floated at the bottom, middle, and at the top of the jagged peak. Drifting upon unseen currents, the forms moved together. They moved with rhythm. Tony thought the figures danced for someone or something that couldn’t be seen. The figures on the bottom and middle moved their way up the mountain. Joining the ones at the top, their momentum stopped and they followed each other in a circular motion. One lone figure shot straight up from the circle. It climbed the sky with intensity. As Tony marveled at the sight, the figure was almost out of sight when it began to fall straight down. Tony watched as the figure continued in its descent. With each passing second the figure accelerated toward the mountain. Two distorted figures appeared in front of Tony. “Why are you here?” one of the figures asked. Startled, Tony moved forward quickly, then turned around and faced the figures. This is a dream. I’ll wake up soon he told himself. Again, he heard the same question. “Why are you here?” “I don’t know. I don’t even know where here is,” Tony responded. 137 137

Tony looked up and the floating figures were no longer in a circular formation. They formed a lined at the bottom, middle, and the top of the mountain. There were no more attempts to reach beyond the mountain. “This is an ancient place. A place that your ancestors knew well,” one of the figures communicated. Tony heard the voice and unsure of who spoke focused his eyes on what appeared before him. “What ancestors?” Tony asked. “Mayans, Aztecs, Spaniards whose blood flows in your veins. Some of the Mayans called us Chacs, ancient rain spirits. We knew of your Jesus and his mother who followed us in the sky. We are the stories of your forefathers. We are mixture like your ancestors. There are lies and truth. We have existed in the twin realities and comfort within one’s desires. We are what you make us, we are the real.” “Like angels or something,” Tony said. Tony wasn’t sure he heard the voice or if the voice was in his head. The two figures answered the question as one with two distinct voices. “No, more like death who treats all with equality. We come to those who find truth undesirable,” the figures said as one. Tony stood in silence. For the moment no more questions entered his mind. Afraid that the figures could read his thoughts, afraid that he was losing his mind, he thought of Ofelia. “Do you know of Icarus?” Tony asked. “Yes, we knew him well.”

138 138

The next morning, Tony awoke before the call for meal time. His cellmate sat on his mattress, feet touching the floor. Tony said nothing and readied for the morning meal. The guards shouted their orders and the men began to step out of their cells. Tony exited the cell; he turned around and asked his cellmate if he was going to eat. His cellmate didn’t respond. Tony walked, making sure he didn’t step outside the painted line. After their meal, the inmates proceeded to their jobs, back to their cells, or went outside. Tony breathed in the morning. He learned to appreciate the outside air. He took another lungful. Tony stood with his back against the cellblock and enjoyed the moment of solitude. Tony saw the big blob of flesh moving toward his position; Fat Moe waddled on the sides of his feet. He combed his hair as he stood in front of Tony. Before Fat Moe said a word; a dark shadow painted the ground. Tony looked up and saw his cellmate float over the barb-wired fence. Fat Moe watched with his mouth opened. “What is that?” Fat Moe asked. “A rain spirit,” Tony whispered. “What?” Fat Moe asked. “A rain spirit, someone that floats in the air, they live in two worlds, don’t you know nothing?” Tony said. “I’ve seen them in my dreams. I didn’t know they’re real,” Fat Moe said. “There’re real, we’re real,” Tony said. Tony watched as his cellmate soared, higher and higher with a majestic grace.

I LEFT MY SUNGLASSES IN SOLEDAD

I left my sunglasses in Soledad. I wouldn’t have minded leaving them there, but they were a gift from my daughter. They were expensive, which she mentions on occasions or whenever we speak. In my haste to find an exit, I didn’t see the flashing lights behind me. I pulled over. The policeman sat in his car for a few minutes. Then he walked to my car with his hand resting on his gun, his dark shape moved forward amid the lights. His footsteps scattered gravel and I saw a lone rock tumble pass my headlights into the darkness. I concentrated on the stream of light, until the rapt of steel taping glass encouraged my attention. Asking successive questions, the policeman’s right hand continued to caress his sidearm. I answered his inquiries with two words, yes and no. He spoke into his shoulder. A muffled voice answered his inquiry; I tried to put a face to the voice. He walked back to his car, speaking into his radio as he opened the door. When he returned, he no longer had his hand on his gun and turned down the volume of the radio as he apologized. He said I matched the description of a known suspect of a home invasion. But, the suspect had been arrested and was in custody. He advised that I needed to slow down. I agreed and asked the quickest way to Soledad. He had a half smile on his face and with another warning to slow down pointed the way. I drove away with his suggestion in my ear. I sped up hearing the warning voice of my daughter.

The lights of the mini mart were comforting as I entered Soledad. A few hours had passed since I stopped for gas. I hoped someone found my sunglasses. The man behind the counter didn’t look familiar. He was younger than the man I 140 140 remembered who was older, and had a scar below his lower lip. I was told that employee left for the day and would be back tomorrow. “Did you happen to find a pair of sunglasses?” I asked. The employee shrugged his shoulders. “They are black with a mixture of tortoise shell in the arms. They’re old school looking. Kind of expensive.” The employee rung up a customer and closed the register with his thumbs. His eyes looked me over. His eyes stopped at my shoes and then moved up to my arms. “Come back tomorrow,” he said. “Did the other guy find my sunglasses?” “I don’t know. I just noticed he had a pair in his hands when he left.” “So, he did find them.” The employee laughed to himself and began helping another customer. I waited. “I don’t know if they were yours. I don’t judge,” the employee said after the customer walked out. I purchased a soda and told the employee that I would be back tomorrow. He stared at me. “How expensive can they be?” he said as I exited the store. I thought about leaving Soledad. But I couldn’t leave without my daughter’s gift. I drove up and down Front Street, still deciding if I wanted to stay. In the darkness, Soledad was tolerable. I pulled into the parking lot of Motel 8. The lot was empty and it looked clean. The steps that led up to the second floor needed to be painted. 141 141

The room was clean. The bed was queen size. I was aware of the quiet, as I sat on the bed. The curtains swayed for a few seconds giving the impression that someone had been in the room. The bathroom door was opened and I saw the towels on a rack above the toilet. I wondered if the towels were clean or if the last guest just left them on the rack and they dried without being noticed. A laminate directory occupied the top of the television; the edges were curled and worn. After a few moments, I went to the lobby and inquired about a good place to eat. The two employees answered at the same time. They agreed that a taco truck down the street had the best food. I never ate food from a taco truck and was skeptical. I asked for a place with seating. They explained that the taco truck had seating. “Yeah, it even has a place in the back to wash your hands. The man who owns it has benches and even has built a small enclosure for the days that it rains or when it’s cold,” the taller employee said. I was hungry and the employees convinced me. They pointed directions and suggested I try the four tacos plate. “They’re small tacos but they come with rice and beans. They’re so good,” the shorter one said. Finding the taco truck wasn’t easy. It was dark and some of the street lights flicked a vibrating luminescence and some of them were just burned out. I stopped at the second stop light and proceeded forward. The taco truck was nowhere to be seen, I continued into a neighborhood that no longer had any light or businesses. Turning around on the next street, my taillights lit up the front yard of the house on the corner. Three young men stood as I straightened the car. One of the young men knocked on my window; he asked if I needed something. “I was looking for a taco truck. Someone told me that it had good food,” I said. 142 142

The young man put one hand on the top of the car and looked down at me. His other hand scratched his chin. “Taco truck, what do you know about a taco truck. Don’t you mean a roach coach?” he said as the other two walked up behind him. “This guy says he’s looking for a roach coach.” “I didn’t say roach coach. Is that what they’re called?” “You sure that is all you want? There’s isn’t anything else?” “No, I was told the tacos were so good.” After saying so good, the three boys laughed without stopping. When their laughter no longer interfered with their breathing, they gave me directions to the taco truck. I drove into the parking lot and read the name on the truck painted with a dark forest green, Felipe’s Fine Dining.

The sink was small. It sat on a small patch of concrete behind the taco truck. The white plastic had scuffed marks with scratches on the outer rim. The inside was well worn and had a few dry leaves. The hose attached to the portable sink appeared new as well as the industrialized hand soap. People stood in line, waiting to order. Some people sat outside and some sat inside. I wiped my hands on my pant leg and when I found my place in line, a small child stared at me. The child smiled and waved hello. I read the menu attached to the side of the truck. I was surprised to see so many different selections. A woman in front of me ordered in Spanish and for a moment I wondered if they understood English. The woman finished her order and the man behind the opening spoke Spanish. I pointed at the picture and tried to say “four” in Spanish. “You want number four,” he said. “Yes, thank you,” I responded. 143 143

“And what would you like to drink?” I scanned the menu and asked what he had. “We have water, Coke, Sprite, Gatorade, and Jarritos.” “You speak very well. I was worried that no one spoke English.” He smiled. “I was born here,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean. Well, you know. I’ll try a Jarritos, orange please.” The man shouted the order to the person beside him. He handed me the drink. The bottle was cold. I wondered how I was going to open it. The man noticed and handed me a bottle opener. “Is this your first time here?” he asked. “Yes, the first time. I’ve never been in Soledad.” “Well, I hope you enjoy your stay. The food here is the best. Listen for your number.” I smiled and searched for an empty table. People continued to enter the small space occupied by the taco truck. After a few minutes, I heard someone shout something in Spanish followed by someone saying number four in English. The food smelled great. I was even tempted to try the jalapeño pepper taking space in the middle of the plate. As I finished my food, the three young men I had encountered emerged from behind the truck. They scanned the area and then stood in line and ordered their food. The man who took my order came out of the truck and sat down on the bench next to me. One of the young men stuck his tongue out at the small child who now stared at them. “How was the food?” the man asked. “It was very good,” I said, “are you the owner?” “Yes, this is my truck.” 144 144

“Are you Felipe?” “No that was my father. He started the business after working in restaurants most of his life. It’s a family business. All my brothers and sisters have worked here.” There was something familiar about this man. He was younger but had a calm demeanor, a maturity that my daughter questioned about me after my divorce from her mother. From his mannerisms, the man from the taco truck had endured many obstacles and survived despite barriers. “What are you doing here sir? Are you looking for someone? You look familiar.” I wondered what kind of look I had. “I was driving through and I left my sunglasses at the mini mart, just off the exit.” The man chuckled to himself and then clapped his hands, one time. He apologized for laughing and repeated the question. “What are you really doing here sir?” No longer wanting to hear laughter directed at me, I answered. “They were a gift from my daughter.” The man seemed to understand and stopped laughing. A family of five stood in line and the man excused himself. I noticed the three young men had finished their food, leaving their mess on the table; a handful of napkins piled on one paper plate remained. Seeing the owner leave the table, the young man, who I had spoken to earlier, sat down on the bench. The other two boys walked toward the dark street. The street was unnerving and as I watched the two boys embrace the pavement and fade into its darkness, I searched for some form of light. The artificial light of 145 145 the taco truck lit the area. A fake light surrounded by the real darkness. Soon the owner would turn off the lights and even the bugs that found comfort in them would leave. A slight breeze whistled and then was gone as I finished my Jarritos. The people inside the enclosure left and only the young man and the family with the small child remained. “So was the food so good?” the young man asked. The owner shouted something to the cook. “Yes, it was very good. Some of the best tacos I’ve ever had.” “What would you know about good tacos?” He studied my face. “I’ve eaten my share,” I said. The young man seemed disturbed by my answer. He began to speak in a mixture of Spanish and English. I looked around in search for the person he was speaking to, and seeing no one, I assumed he was speaking too me. “Why are you really here? Here in this neighborhood. And don’t tell about the tacos. There good but not that good. Are you looking for family?” the young man asked. I was now embarrassed to mention the sunglasses. The idea of staying overnight in a strange town for something that could be replaced had me wondering. “I left something behind,” I said. “Yeah, I can tell you forgot a lot of things, like Spanish,” he said. “What?” “You understand man. Your skin doesn’t lie. Even though you talk like them,” the young man said. “I speak like whom?” I asked. 146 146

“Forget it man. Do you have a couple of bucks I can borrow?” The owner of the taco truck came out and told everyone he was closing. The young family acknowledged him. The young man waited for a few minutes and then began to walk away; I asked him what he meant. “Think about it. I’m sure this isn’t the only time you’ve heard this.” “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” I said. “Look in the mirror.” “I’m not Spanish if that’s what you mean.” “Are you sure? Have you forgotten that too?” the young man asked. “I’m not sure about a lot of things but I know that.” “Whatever man, I guess it’s better to forget about something than to remember it,” the young man said. “Yeah, sometimes it is. But what would you know about forgetting anything. You’re too young.” “That’s all we try to do, forget,” the young man said. “What happened with your friends? Why did they leave?” “They had some things going on and they said you had no money. That an old man like you was probably related to someone in the neighborhood.” Before I could respond and tell him that I wasn’t related to anyone in the neighborhood, he turned around. “Old man,” he said with his back to me, “someday it’ll come back,” he said and began to walk that turned into a run. In a few seconds, he was no longer in sight.

The next day I woke to the sound of someone taking a shower in the next room. The time was ten o’clock. I had planned to leave at eight. I hoped the 147 147 employee at the mini mart had what was mine. Knowing that he had no regard for others disturbed me. Taking things left behind could be normal practice, and I supposed no one ever returned. There was a chance that I wouldn’t matter to the man. After taking a shower, I gathered my things and left the room. There were three people milling around the front desk. They were talking and laughing, but when I entered the lobby they were silent. They moved to the end of the counter and lowered their voices. The woman behind the counter greeted me with a hello and no smile. I wanted to leave Soledad. I didn’t care if she even spoke a word. “And how was your stay sir?” she said as if rehearsed. “Fine, how much is it?” “Just leave it on the same card?” she asked. “Yeah that’s fine.” “So how was Soledad?” she asked waiting for the receipt to print. “Interesting, it certainly lives up to its name.” She looked at me with no emotion and faked a smile as she handed me the receipt. Saying thank you, she made her way to the end of the counter and entered the conversation. Like a one night stand, Soledad looked better at night. I wanted to get out of town before being seen. I exited the parking lot and tried to remember where I was going. I passed the taco truck. I saw the owner talking with a young man. I couldn’t determine if it was the same young man from the previous night. I wondered if they spoke of forgetting. There were things worth forgetting, like my ex-wife. But there was something else that younger man meant. Something I could not narrow down, something that escaped me. As the mini mart came into sight, I remembered my daughter. 148 148

“Father don’t lose these glasses.” “These are nice. They look expensive.” “Don’t lose them. I bought them for you. Now you won’t look like a bum.” “A bum? Who said I looked like a bum?” “Sorry dad, I try to ignore her when she talks about you.” “I should have known. Your mother always had this thing about my appearance. Before we stated dating, she thought I looked like a hood. Just like all the others, she would say. She was always judging me.” “I don’t dad. Remember that when you wear these. When you wear them you will be able to see me. And it might be a while before that happens again. So don’t lose them,” she said. The door chimed as I entered the store. There was no one behind the register. I looked over the counter, looking for someone, anyone. A six pack of beer sat on the counter. An employee entered from the back of the store. It was the same employee from the previous night. He didn’t recognize me as he apologized. The previous night entered his mind; his eyes squinted in remembrance. “I’m sorry man but he didn’t show up for work. Called in sick that’s why I’m here,” he said. He stood behind the register with his arms folded. Then he grabbed the six pack of beer and placed it underneath the counter. “There’s not much I can do for you, sorry,” he said as he moved his head forward in order to see the parking lot. I couldn’t leave without what I left behind. It was one of the few things that remained from a fading life. “Do you have a restroom I can use? Is it in the back?” I said walking toward the back of the store. The employee moved away from the counter and blocked my path. 149 149

“Sorry, I was just cleaning the restrooms when you got here” “Both of them? I can use the one that’s not being cleaned.” He extended both arms in front of him and shook his head no. “Listen, senor, I can give you a pair of sunglasses from the ones that we sell,” he said pointing to the display of sunglasses. I walked around him, moving toward the back of the store. He didn’t move. He had his hands raised in the air pleading for guidance or rain. I didn’t care who or what he called. Entering the back of the store, I noticed the office door was opened. I looked inside and there stood the man I remembered. “Do you remember me?” I asked He looked stunned. His eyes scanned the room; he appeared to be looking for answers or a place to run. “No, sorry man, you don’t look familiar.” “Listen I’m tired. I want back what is mine.” He shrugged his shoulders and pushed his way past me. He now stood by the other employee. They smiled at me. I stood in front of both of them with my attention on the employee who had the scar under his lip. The first employee no longer smiled and moved behind the counter. “You have something of mine,” I said “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you best leave,” he said showing his empty pockets. “I’m tired of leaving. No more leaving, no more going away.” He seemed confused at what had been said, moving to the front of the register, he purchased the six pack of beer from behind the counter. “You have something of mine,” I repeated. “You’re crazy. I don’t have anything.” 150 150

“They’re on top of your head idiot,” I said as I grabbed the sunglasses resting on his head. He reached for my arm as I took a step back. We faced each other and before he could react, I kicked him in the balls. He fell on his knees, moaned and coughed. The other employee threatened to call the police. “Go ahead,” I said. “You people are all the same.” “What is this “you” people? I was born here,” I said. He stared at me and then at the other employee who still moaned and coughed. “You’re Mexican. You guys come over here demanding all kinds of stuff.” “I’m not Mexican.” “Whatever you are, I know you’re not American.” I put the sunglasses on. My eyes adjusted to the tinted view. I saw my daughter in a swirl of memories. I remembered her laugh, I saw her as she put her small hands on my shoulder as I slept on the couch, and then she smiled. The man behind the counter pointed his finger at me, as the police car entered the parking lot. The policeman stepped out of his car. I adjusted the sunglasses, hoping that in the light, I no longer matched any description but my own.

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