Alburquerque
A Novel
Praise for the Writing of Rudolfo Anaya
“An extraordinary storyteller.” —Los Angeles Times Book Review
“One of the nation’s foremost Chicano literary artists.” —The Denver Post
“[Anaya’s work] is better called not the new multicultural writing, but the new American writing.” —Newsweek
“One of the best writers in the country.” —El Paso Times
“The godfather and guru of Chicano literature.” —Tony Hillerman, author of The Blessing Way
“Poet of the barrio … the most widely read Mexican-American.” —Newsweek
Alburquerque
Winner of PEN Center West Award for Fiction
“Alburquerque is a rich and tempestuous book, full of love and compassion, the complex and exciting skullduggery of politics, and the age-old quest for roots, identity, family … There is a marvelous tapestry of interwoven myth and magic that guides Anaya’s characters’ sensibilities, and is equally important in defining their feel of place. Above all, in this novel is a deep caring for land culture and for the spiritual well-being of people, environment, landscape.” —John Nichols, author of The Milagro Beanfield War: A Novel
“Alburquerque portrays a quest for knowledge.… [It] is a novel about many cultures intersecting at an urban, power-and politics-filled crossroads, represented by a powerful white businessman, whose mother just happens to be a Jew who has hidden her Jewishness … and a boy from the barrio who fathers a child raised in the barrio but who eventually goes on to a triumphant assertion of his cross-cultural self.” —World Literature Today
“Alburquerque fulfills two important functions: it restores the missing R to the name of the city, and it shows off Anaya’s powers as a novelist.” —National Public Radio
“Anaya is at his visionary best in creating magical realist moments that connect people with one another and the earth.” —The Review of Contemporary Fiction
“Anaya’s prowess shows through on every page.… Thumbs up.” —ABQ Arts
Tortuga
Winner of the American Book Award
“A compelling story of a young man who suffers and learns to make peace with who he is, Tortuga has that touch of magic, of fantastical characters, of dreams as real as sunlight, associated with the best of Chicano literature.” —Roundup Magazine
“Tortuga is one those rare works that speaks to the human condition across time and space, and it well-deserves to find a new generation of readers.” —Southwest BookViews
“A highly emotional tale of a young soul who turned from a turtle into a human all in the span of 200 pages.” —Reviewers of Young Adult Literature
My Land Sings
Winner of the Tomás Rivera Mexican American Children’s Book Award
“Rich in traditional Mexican and native American folklore. Every story spins its magic effectively.” —Booklist
“Haunting. Compelling twists will keep the pages turning.” —Publishers Weekly
“Anaya champions the reading of a good book or listening to a folktale as an opportunity to insert one’s own experiences into the story and, hence, to nurture the imagination. This appealing volume will add diversity to folklore collections.” —Booklist
“The wide variety of stories demonstrate a mature understanding of life’s trappings and dangers, but retain a healthy sense of humor about the human predicament.” —Kirkus Reviews
Serafina’s Stories
“[Serafina’s] stories are simple but vivid.… There is magic and mystery too.” —Los Angeles Times
“Anaya’s prose offers … purity. [Serafina’s Stories] will restore to all but the most jaded reader a necessary sense of wonder.” —National Public Radio
“Like Serafina, Anaya is a powerful storyteller whose cuentos and other writings are a balm for the soul.” —New Mexico Magazine
“It is not hard to predict that Serafina’s story will be hypnotic and entertain.… With Serafina’s Stories Anaya again reminds us of the importance of maintaining an oral tradition.” —San Antonio Express-News
“Rudolfo Anaya is both a wise man and a gifted storyteller. Serafina’s Stories [is] a series of engaging tales.” —Santa Fe New Mexican
“Anaya’s new book is a spellbinding account of a Native American woman who spins tales to enlighten the Spanish governor into setting her people free. Clearly conceived, Serafina’s Stories contains 12 folk tales that are as absorbing as the main plot.” —El Paso Times
Heart of Aztlan
“In Heart of Aztlan, a prose writer with the soul of poet, and a dedication to his calling that only the greatest artists ever sustain, is on an important track, the right one, the only one.” —La Confluencia
“[Heart of Aztlan gives] a vivid sense of Chicano life since World War II.” —World Literature Today
“Mixed with the Native American legends and Hispanic traditions of this wonderful book are the basic human motivations that touch all cultures. It is a rip-roaring good read.” —Cibola Beacon
Jalamanta
“A parable for our time … We are in deep need of simple truths, of rediscovering our ancient teachings, and Jalamanta may provide that opportunity.” —The Washington Post Book World
Zia Summer
“A compelling thriller … Though satisfying purely as a mystery, the novel sacrifices none of Anaya’s trademark spirituality—a connectedness to the earth and a deep-seated respect for the traditions of a people and a culture.… Read this multicultural novel for its rich language and full-bodied characters. Anaya is one of our greatest storytellers, and Zia Summer is muy caliente!” —Booklist
“[Anaya] continues to shine brightest with his trademark alchemy: blending Spanish, Mexican, and Indian cultures to evoke the distinctively fecund spiritual terrain of his part of the Southwest.” —Publishers Weekly
Rio Grande Fall
“This is a completely entertaining mystery novel, but Anaya offers two parallel lands of enchantment. One is temporal New Mexico; the other is Nuevo Mexicano, a land of santos, milagros, spirits, visions, and even brujas (witches).” —Booklist
Shaman Winter
“Be aware that if you only skate on the surface, you will miss the depth of the story. You have to dive head-first, literally, into the waves of poetic prose to catch a glimpse of the forces that keep our universe together.” —La Voz
“The fast-paced story line of Shaman Winter is fascinating and absolutely eerie as the master paints a vivid picture of the spirituality of another culture.” —Thrilling Detective
Jemez Spring
“Jemez Spring is meant to appeal to readers of conventional mystery novels, but there is nothing conventional about it.… It taps into primal and universal fears and longings but plays them out in a uniquely New Mexican setting. And the master tells his tales with worlds and images so rich and strange that it is almost as if he had invented a language of his own.” —Los Angeles Times
“Jemez Spring again blends the Spanish, Mexican, and Indian cultures that made the three earlier works in the series such good reads. Anaya is at his best when writing about the people of New Mexico, their traditions and their lives and how they clash with the influx of Anglos.” —San Antonio Express-News
“Anaya takes the reader beyond detective fiction.… His mysteries fall into the criminal and the spiritual, which makes them both inspiring and electrifying.” —St. Petersburg Times
“Unique and exciting … Readers thirsty for philosophy and the supernatural will devour this book.” —Daily Camera (Boulder)
“Anaya, godfather and guru of Chicano literature, proves he’s just as good in the murder mystery field.” —Tony Hillerman, author of The Blessing Way
In April of 1880 the railroad reached la Villa de Alburquerque in New Mexico. Legend says the Anglo stationmaster couldn’t pronounce the first ‘r’ in “Albur,” so he dropped it as he painted the station sign for the city. This novel restores the original spelling, Alburquerque.
RUDOLFO ANAYA
1
Ben Chávez walked into Jack’s Cantina and ordered a beer at the bar. April was already warm, and the air conditioning felt good. The image in the mirror smiled back, showing a row of even teeth in a brown face. The dark hair was graying around the temples. Hitting forty isn’t bad, he thought, as he took his beer and found an empty booth. He sipped and enjoyed the cool, bitter taste of draft beer.
It was Friday afternoon and the bar was packed with university students, local patrons, and a few professors. Things don’t change much, Ben thought as he leaned back into the well-polished vinyl seat of the booth.
He was teaching a writing class at the university just up the street, and today after class some of the students had invited him to an uptown bar. Ben declined. If he was going to have a beer on his way home, he preferred Jack’s. The old bar on Central Avenue had been a favorite place for a long time.
Sooner or later everyone passes through the doors of Jack’s Cantina, Ben thought, from the winos who hung around the blood donor center to the downtown bigshots. The place had been around a long time and its booths were worn, but it was comfortable. For Ben, it was a friendly wateringhole. He felt the tension generated by student questions drain away as he enjoyed his beer.
He was working on a story, thinking of writing something about the current political situation. The mayor’s race was heating up. Frank Dominic, an old high school friend, was running. He wanted to be governor, but he hadn’t played hardball in New Mexico politics, so he planned to get experience as mayor. That meant he had to beat the incumbent Marisa Martínez, a thirty-year-old attorney. She had called Ben a few weeks ago to ask for his support, and Ben was sure Dominic would be calling soon.
In the meantime Cynthia lay dying in St. Joseph’s Hospital; the cancer was winning the battle. He sighed. There wasn’t anything he could do about it. Nada. Death came even in springtime. Maybe that’s why he had declined his students’ invitation; he wanted to be alone. He felt tired, and he knew it wasn’t the job. The thought of Cynthia dying had worn him down. He had been to see her, and the woman lying on the bed was no longer the young woman he once knew. Time had come between them, and now her death was about to seal the separation.
He scribbled a note on the bar napkin in front of him. Maybe he should write her story, not the story of the political struggle that was going to tear the city apart. Cynthia was dying, that’s what mattered. It was a story he had never told, and maybe its time had come.
As he wrote, an old nemesis from high school appeared at his booth.
“Ben, cómo ’stás, vato?” the big man said. He slapped Ben on the back. Not a friendly gesture.
Ben looked up. Fat Bernie. Fat Bernie was king of the pool table in the back room. He also ran drugs in the student ghetto that lay along the university’s south side. They had gone to high school together, and because they were from different barrios, their gangs had fought, big-time rumbles after football games or dances.
“Okay, Bernie. You?”
“Just earning a living,” Bernie replied. “Come on, let’s play a little eight ball.”
Ben shook his head. He hadn’t played pool in a long time, and Bernie played for high stakes. Besides, he didn’t like Bernie.
“Come on,” Bernie insisted. “You used to play at Okie’s. Remember?” Bernie laughed. He was fat and dark as he loomed over the writer, a shadow from the past.
Ben remembered. He had played a lot of pool when he was a student at the university, but that was another time, another world. He had played Bernie and beaten him, and Bernie had never forgotten.
“Come on, one game, five bucks,” Bernie kept bugging him, drawing the attention of the other people in the bar. “I’ll give you a handicap. I’ll tie one hand behind my back!” Bernie roared. His buddy, a simian character in pachuco dress, emerged from the crowd to laugh with him. Chango was Bernie’s compa in the drug game they played. Everybody knew.
“Es gallina,” Chango sneered. He looked at Ben with evil eyes.
Chicken, Ben thought. I was never chicken. We knocked the hell of out you, Chango. Remember? Nobody called him chicken.
“Okay.” Ben slid out of the booth. “Come on, Bernie, let’s see how good you really are.”
Bernie led the way into the back room, and Chango laughed. They were loaded with dope money and high on a few snorts.
A buzz filled the air, heads turned, and some of the workers drinking at the bar followed the players into the back room. Some of the men knew Ben had played once. They watched as he slapped five twenties on the table and picked out a cue stick.
Bernie cleared his throat. A hundred bucks a game? Most of the guys shot for beer money. Beads of sweat broke out on Bernie’s forehead. He felt the wad of money in his pocket then looked at Chango. Chango smiled, “Chingalo.”
They rolled up their sleeves and played. Ben’s instinct was to go easy at first, let the sucker win a few, then raise the bets. But Bernie and Chango had ticked off something in him, an anger that had lain dormant. Old scores he thought were dead and settled from his youth.
It was like going to a cockfight in Bernalillo or Belen. You go thinking you’re not going to get involved, but the flurry of the cocks and blood spilling excite everyone, and soon you’re betting, soon you’re in the game.
He planned to put Bernie away as fast as possible. He hated bullies, and these two had bullied him all the way through high school. He let Bernie take the first game, upped the bet, then ran the table on the next three.
Afternoon turned to late afternoon. The pool room grew crowded as other players and customers gathered to watch the game. The word filtered out quickly: Ben Chávez was giving Bernie a hard time on the table. Silent Ben Chávez, who just wrote books and was always courteous when he dropped by for a beer, could play pool. And Bernie had the reputation for being one of the best players in the city.
But now Bernie was sweating and puffing. He hadn’t expected a tight game, and he sure as hell didn’t want to lose to Ben Chávez. He kept digging into his pocket, and in a couple of hours he was over a thousand into the wad of money he owed his boss. The man who supplied him with dope would not wait to be paid. He cursed and looked at Ben. Pure luck, but the sonofabitch was running hot. Too hot. Bernie stomped, changed from beer to shots of tequila, changed his cue stick, and still Ben ran table after table.
An hour later Bernie knew he had taken a beating. Sweat dripped from him as he leaned exhausted against the table. He looked at Chango. His partner had covered bets on the side, but that had only increased their losses. Lady Luck, la Señora dressed in white lace, followed Ben around the table. Today I am with you, she whispered, but playing pool ain’t like writing a story. Tomorrow no one may care when you finish the poem.
Ben smiled. Suerte was fickle, he knew, but he had been given a gift early in life. Lady Luck was always by his side.
Do something, Bernie’s scowl said, but Chango was sweating, too. In a few hours they had to deliver the Friday night take, and they were going to be short.
Only Ben Chávez remained cool. He hadn’t played eight ball in a long time, but the skill was still there. He was enjoying beating Bernie. He felt high, in charge of things. He could still shoot a good game, and that pleased him.
“Last game, Bernie,” Ben smiled, “then I’m looking for new competition.” He and those around the table laughed. He had two balls to run. He leaned over the table, stroked the cue stick, and as he did he accidentally touched the eight ball with the back end of his cue stick. It was a mistake Bernie and Chango had been waiting for.
“Hey! Hustle!” Chango cried, grabbed Ben and spun him around.
“Accident,” Ben tried to explain as he pushed Chango back, but Bernie had already charged. He swung his cue stick and the blow glanced across Ben’s forehead.
Stunned, Ben fell back. He cursed himself for the stupid move. Anger overwhelmed him as he struggled to his feet.
“Okay, Bernie, you asked for it!” He swung back. No sonofabitch was going to hit him and get away with it. It was like old times. Somebody pushed and you pushed back—that was the rule of the barrio.
“You hustled!” Chango shouted and pulled a switchblade. The crowd drew back. Chango moved in slowly. “You asked for it, ese.”
Ben shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Ah damn, a knife. Same old story. Why couldn’t he fight with his fists?
“Put the knife away,” he heard himself say.
“Yeah, put the knife away,” someone repeated. Chango turned to see a big Indian step forward.
“Stay outta this, Joe!” Bernie shouted.
He knew Joe Calabasa, an ex-Nam vet who drank his afternoon beer at Jack’s. Next to him stood Abrán González, a former Golden Gloves boxer.
“Stay out!” Chango yelled at Joe. That was his big mistake. Joe kicked out and Chango’s knife went flying. In the same motion he hit Chango with a crushing blow that sent the man sprawling over the pool table, blood gushing from his mouth.
Bernie came in with a cue stick, but Abrán stopped him with a left jab, then a short right that split the fat man’s lip. The fight was over. Tony, the bartender, came pushing through the crowd, shouting “Break it up! Break it up!”
“It’s okay,” Joe said. Nobody was going to jump in for Bernie.
Bernie and Chango knew they were beaten. They backed away. “Sonofabitch started it!” Bernie cursed.
“I don’t care who started it,” Tony threatened. “No fighting here! Move on out!”
Bernie pulled Chango away, and nursing their wounds they left the bar.
Joe Calabasa turned to Ben. “You okay?”
“Get him a drink,” the bartender said, and Angel the waitress hurried to the bar. “Clear the room, folks, just a little argument. It’s all over. All over.” He looked at Ben. “You okay?”
Ben Chávez nodded. “I’m okay.”
The writer looked at Joe Calabasa, then at the young man with him. Abrán González. A handsome kid. His eyes were a light brown, the color of his curly hair.
“Abrán,” he said. His hand trembled when he took the handkerchief the kid offered him.
“You know my name?”
Ben pressed the handkerchief to his wound. “Everybody knows you. You were Golden Gloves champ.”
Abrán smiled; a couple of men returning to their tables slapped him on the back. Others congratulated Ben on the game as they went back into the bar to drink and talk about the fight. Ben drank the shot of Jack Daniel’s that Angel offered him. It eased the pain.
“And thanks, Joe …” Ben looked at Joe and tried to remember where they had met.
“Calabasa. From Santo Domingo. I took a class with you a few years ago.”
“That’s it. I can’t remember plots, but I never forget a face.” Ben smiled. He shook Joe’s hand then Abrán’s. “You saved my life.”
“Nah. But you better see a doctor,” Joe said.
“Ah, it’s nothing. I’ll get home, be okay,” Ben answered.
They walked with him out the door into the bright afternoon light. A spring windstorm was sweeping over the city, raising dust. In the neighborhood behind the bar the tall elm trees were already green with seed clusters. Somewhere in the apartments nearby a woman called a child, and a screen door banged. In the parking lot someone had run over a snake that had come out of a garden with the warmth of spring. Two winos had stopped to look at the mess.
“Okay?” Abrán asked.
“Feel like I have rubber knees,” Ben said, catching a glimpse of the dead snake. The wind swirled dust in his eyes, and he thought of the snake dance at Zuni. The snake had awakened to spring and come into the light to meet its death; it was not a good omen.
“We can drive you home, Mr. Chávez,” Joe volunteered.
“Or the hospital,” Abrán added.
“Ben, call me Ben. This? It’s nothing. You should have seen some of the high school fights I was in. Blood and broken bones all over the place. And we’re still alive. It’s not bleeding. I could use a ride home.…”
“Can do,” Joe said. “Abrán can drive your car, I’ll follow.”
They helped him into his car and Ben told Abrán to follow Central Avenue across town to the West Mesa.
“I was stupid,” he said. His head throbbed. “I haven’t been in a fight since I was in high school. What am I going to tell the wife?” They drove in silence. “It was a good one,” he said. “You know what they say, Dios cuida a los niños y los borrachos. He also takes care of writers,” he added.
They crossed the Río Grande and Ben looked out across the river bosque. The cottonwoods were sprouting buds, a light tinge of green in the otherwise dusty afternoon. The windstorms came with spring, the souls of the dead rode the wind. Most people grew nervous and unsettled with wind; Ben listened to its cry.
“I built my home on the West Mesa so I could watch the sun rise in the morning,” Ben said. “From there I watch the city. A man never runs out of stories to tell when he has a city like this.”
Abrán listened politely as Ben talked. He had never thought about the life of a writer, although as a first-year student at the university he was enjoying the literature class he was taking. It was his favorite subject, and he never tired of analyzing the novels he read for class. But he had never met a writer. The man took what were the ordinary events in life and created stories. He listened closely as Ben Chávez talked about his past, and he sensed the man was struggling with a problem, something he needed to resolve.
He drove into the driveway, and he and Joe walked Ben to the front door. “I want you to come in,” Ben kept insisting. “Meet my wife. She’s going to be upset. Come in.” He called and his wife, a slim, attractive woman, appeared. “Elena, mi amor, these are my friends, Joe and Abrán.”
She greeted the two young men. “What happened?” she asked. Ben was still holding Abrán’s handkerchief to his forehead.
“It’s nothing, a small cut,” he tried to explain as she looked at the wound.
“A bruise, but you should see a doctor.”
“For this? It’s nothing. A bandage, that’s all I need. Look, it stopped bleeding.”
“Okay,” she said, “but it’s going to leave a scar.”
“The scars of life,” he said and looked at Abrán and Joe. Something about the incident had released more than adrenaline. He felt he was destined to meet the two young men, but he didn’t know why.
“All right,” she agreed. “Go in the study, I’ll bring the bandages.”
“Follow me,” he said and led Abrán and Joe past the dining area and down a set of stairs. His study contained a desk, a typewriter, a word processor, files, and shelves stacked thick with books. Along the top of a bookshelf sat an array of plaster saints.
“My santos,” he explained as he offered them chairs. “They have delivered me home once again. Gracias a Dios y las kachinas.”
“Nice place,” Joe said as he looked through the bookshelves.
“It is,” Ben answered. “I have peace and quiet here. Look around. Can I get you a drink?”
“No, not for me,” Abrán said.
He watched Abrán, taking in the boy’s face. His fine sculptured nose hadn’t been damaged by the years of boxing, and the gaze in his eyes was still innocent.
“I want to thank you,” Ben said.
“No problem,” Abrán answered. “Bernie had it coming.”
Joe had made his way around a bookshelf to look at a large painting on the wall. It was the scene of a matanza, the butchering of hogs for winter meat. It was so vivid in detail and color that the people in it seemed alive. He was about to ask Ben about the painting when Ben’s wife reappeared.
“It’s a clean cut,” she said as she cleaned the wound. “It will be bruised awhile.”
Ben handed Abrán the handkerchief he had borrowed.
“I can wash it,” Ben’s wife said.
“No, no trouble,” Abrán said. “We have to go.”
“I want to thank you,” she said. She shook their hands and wished there was something she could give them.
“Stay and eat with us,” she invited.
“Thanks, but my mother is waiting,” Abrán explained. “She promised us a big supper.”
“If you hadn’t been there Chango would have cut me in thirteen pieces and fed me to the ducks at Tingley Beach,” Ben thanked them.
“Glad to help,” Joe said.
“We better get going,” Abrán said. “It was an honor to meet you, Ben. And you,” he said to Elena.
“Come again and stay longer,” Ben said as he walked them to the door. “Adiós.” He waved.
He stood there and watched them drive away. He felt the pain of the headache, but it was a surface pain, something he knew would eventually go away. The pain inside was not as temporary. Cynthia was dying, and there was nothing he could do, nothing except begin the story that came to him at Jack’s.
Each small event in life has a meaning, he thought, each event connects us to the web of life. Strands of the past return to haunt us; the past is never dead.
Troubled by the sudden turn of the afternoon, he went to the terrace to sit and watch the sun set over the city. The wind had died down, as it usually did in late afternoon. The apricot trees had already flowered; if there was no late freeze there would be fruit, the golden fruit of early summer. The first purple buds had also appeared on the lilac bushes that lined one side of his garden. When they bloomed, spring would change to summer, and the passion of summer would flood the valley. Spring was the time of transition, the time of awakening.
His wife brought him an herbal tea and they sat together, looking out across the valley.
“Nice young men,” she said.
“Yes,” he answered, and he thought of the other two young men who were characters in the epic poem he was writing. He had to finish the poem because now he had a new story forming and ready to come alive.
He gazed across the Río Grande Valley, mesmerized by the wide horizon in front of him. River, mountain, and the valley that held the oasis of the city.
The river was a serpent winding its way south. It was carrying the snowmelt of the northern mountains of Taos, the mountains of the Sangre de Cristo. Normally he could sit for hours and watch the rich glow of the setting sun light up the valley and clothe the Sandías in mauve majesty, but the clarity of light that came with dusk did not comfort him today. He got up and went to his desk to write. Old themes, he thought, have to be resolved. Cynthia was dying.
2
Abrán and Joe drove south on Atrisco toward Central, then across the old Tingley Beach road. Tingley Beach was a large pond which ran parallel to the deep acequia on the east side of the Río Grande. On the north side of the irrigation canal spread the Country Club golf course and beyond that were the homes of the once prestigious old neighborhood.
Tingley Beach had been the city’s first swimming hole. It was built during the term of the late 1930s mayor, Clyde Tingley, so the name had stuck. It was the only lake of any size in the city. In the forties and fifties the city swarmed to Tingley Beach on Sunday afternoons, but when the polio epidemics swept the country, its use as the local swimming hole was prohibited. Municipal pools were built in the fifties and now the beach was a winter fishing hole. Ducks lived there year-round, and withered elm trees lined the dry, sandy banks.
In every kind of weather, fishermen plied the stagnant waters, lovers came to sit at the tables on the sandy banks, and joggers ran along trails by the side of the beach. Today there was a family enjoying the first warm day of spring.
“If they build the big aquatic park the city is planning, la raza gets pushed out,” Joe said. “My grandfather used to tell me the city was going to grow. ‘Just don’t let them get the pueblo land,’ he said. If you give up your land, you die. The developers have built clear up to the Sandías. Now they’re buying up the downtown barrios.”
“What’s left?” Abrán asked.
“The river land. ‘Water is blood,’ my grandpa said, and now they need the blood to keep building.”
“The conservancy won’t let them,” Abrán said.
“Don’t believe it, bro. See in the paper where Dominic is running for mayor? He cooked up a big water scheme. Gonna take the river right downtown. When men with money want to do something like that, the laws bend for them.”
Abrán nodded. Joe was right. “What did you think of Ben Chávez?”
“He’s okay. Sure as hell should never have gotten in a game with Bernie.”
“You had a class with him?”
“Yeah, when I first started at the university. I thought I wanted to be a writer. Write about my grandfather, the way he lived. It was no good, Nam was too close.”
Abrán turned toward the barrio.
“Hey, where you going?”
“Home. The jefita’s got supper waiting.”
“Can’t, bro. Not tonight.”
“Come on, I told her after we ran we’d be hungry. She’s expecting us.”
They had jogged around Roosevelt Park, then stopped at Jack’s for a beer. Joe sometimes went home with him after they ran. Today was special, Abrán thought. He had gone into the fight instinctively to help Joe, and when he had time to reflect, he realized he still had the quickness in his hands.
“I can’t. Drop me off at the bus depot.”
“Meeting someone?”
“I want to send a letter to my mom. My cousin is picking up his rides about now.”
There was a sadness in his voice, something Abrán seldom heard from his friend. Joe was tough. He had survived Nam and he had survived life in the streets after the war. Now he was catching up on the years he had lost. He lived in an apartment near the university and he was taking classes, but Abrán knew that the real issue Joe had to deal with was whether or not to return to the pueblo.
“The men of the pueblo will be out cleaning the acequias,” Joe said. “They need help. My old man will spread out his corn and calabaza seeds like they were gold coins. Almost time to plant.”
Abrán knew Joe needed the pueblo, he needed to be back in its circle, but he was afraid to return and take the ghosts of Nam with him.
“I’d like to see Bea,” Joe said. “When I first got back, I thought I was okay. Had my uniform on, spit shine. I was drinking, but so was everybody. First night I took her out, I drank a lot. I guess I wanted to tell her about Nam, but when I tried I went crazy. I took it out on her. I don’t ever want to do that again.”
Joe grew silent, immersed in his own thoughts, and Abrán respected the silence. Abrán knew a little about the kind of pain Joe was carrying. He remembered the death of his friend, Junior Gómez. Gunner they used to call him, because when they were kids he imitated the sound of a submachine gun when they played war. Junior was with Abrán in Golden Gloves all the way through their senior year. Then one afternoon, after a sparring session, Junior died. He went home with a headache and died that night, and Abrán had blamed himself. The coaches tried to tell him it was an accident, but the death of his best friend haunted Abrán. He put away the gloves and the dreams of turning pro, finished high school, and escaped to Los Angeles for two years. During those years he tried to cut himself away from the past. He called only his mother, Sara, and he lost touch with the old gang. Still, Junior haunted him.
He also remembered the death of Ramiro, his father. He was six when the old man died, and that memory was not as poignant. Yet there were times when he remembered things Ramiro had told him, and the warmth and earth smell of the old man.
Twice, death had changed Abrán’s life.
He sighed as he pulled up in front of the bus depot. “There’s Sonny,” Abrán said and nodded at the pickup in front of them.
“Yeah,” Joe said. “I’ll call you Monday. Tell your mom to save me some tortillas.”
“Take care.” Abrán waved, but he waited. Maybe Joe would change his mind.
The man standing at the truck door turned and watched Joe get out of the car. “Hey, Joe, you ugly Indian, have a beer.”
“Hey, Sonny.” Joe took the beer and nodded at the guys sitting in the camper. A couple of San Felipe boys who worked with Sonny.
“We’re going dancin’ in Algodones,” one of them said.
“Goin’ kick ass with our Cochití cousins,” the other added. They laughed.
“Come on,” Sonny said, “lez go, cousin.”
Joe turned and looked at Abrán. Go on, Joe, Abrán wanted to call to him. Go home. You’ve been away too long. And Joe, who had stepped close to the truck and now had Sonny’s arm around his shoulder as they drank beer, wanted to go home. He wanted to crawl into the camper and drink and sing all the way home. He wanted to envelop himself in the smell in the camper, the smell of men who had sweated and worked hard all day.
“Come on, Joe, let’s haul ass,” one of them said.
“We gotta go, Joe,” Sonny said. “You comin’?”
Joe shook his head. “Nah. I got things to do here. Take this to my mom, huh.” He handed Sonny the letter.
“Sure,” Sonny said, “but you’re gonna miss a good dance.”
“See you, Joe.”
“Don’t take any Indian nickels.”
“Watch out for them white girls!”
They called and laughed as Sonny burned rubber out into the traffic. A car honked; the driver cursed.
Joe turned and looked at Abrán. He had waited, hoping Joe would change his mind, but Joe waved and walked off down the street. Abrán pulled away, a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn’t like it when he couldn’t understand Joe, when Joe went into one of his moods. He’s going to drink this weekend, Abrán thought. Dream of the pueblo and drink.
He had met Joe in a PE class at the university. They began to run together, talk about other classes, and they became good friends. Joe was older; he knew the world. He became, in a sense, the father Abrán didn’t have. Abrán knew when Joe was in a drinking mood, when he needed to escape the demons that had entered his soul in Nam.
Abrán turned south on Fourth into the Barelas barrio and home. Dusk was settling over the neighborhood. He pulled into his driveway, then stopped at the door and paused to break a sprig of yellow forsythia for his mother.
When he entered, the aroma of food filled his nostrils. Chile, beans, potatoes frying, hot tortillas. “Mamá!” he called. Always Mamá or jefita. He never called her by her name, Sara. She was in her late fifties and proud, she said, to be old-fashioned. Dinners were important, and they centered around her son. I cook for you to please you, she said. Your father was like that, the evening meal was special. It was a time for family to be together.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he picked up the mail at the telephone table and entered the kitchen. The envelope had a St. Joseph Hospital return address. A bill? he wondered.
“Mi’jo, I’m glad to see you,” his mother said as she turned from the salad she was mixing to kiss him. He handed here the flowers. “For the salad?” She smiled.
“For you. I met Ben Chávez, the writer. Joe and I dropped in for a beer at Jack’s. And there was a fight, not bad, just …”
“A fight?”
“Not bad. An argument. The writer—”
“What writer?” she asked, wiping her hands and putting the sprig of forsythia in a glass of water on the windowsill. The geranium was still blooming bright red, but the forsythia made her realize spring had arrived. She would have Abrán turn the soil in the flower bed. And the trim around the house needed painting.
Abrán opened the letter. “Do we owe St. Joe’s?”
“No, not that I know. So, tell me about the writer.”
“He got in a game of pool with a bad character …” his voice trailed off as he read the letter. When he finished he looked up at her. A dark, penetrating look. He was looking for himself in her. She felt her heart skip a beat, and the fear she had lived with since Abrán became her son surfaced. It had come. The letter she had feared for so long had come.
“There’s a mistake,” he said softly and looked at the envelope again, then at the letter.
“What does it say?” she asked, her knees weak, her mouth dry. He had looked at her and did not recognize himself. Santo Niño de Atocha, it was bound to happen. She had always known it would happen, hadn’t she told herself? She knew that one day he would look at her and not see his reflection, and she would have to tell him that she and her husband, Ramiro, had adopted him as a child. He was given to them, and they were made to take a vow never to tell Abrán about his past.
With trembling hands she took the letter. Cynthia Johnson. The pain in her heart grew sharper.
“Sit,” he said and he quickly got her a glass of water. She had glanced at the letter and grown pale. He held the glass to her trembling hands and she sipped.
“It’s not for me,” he said. “A mistake.” His voice seemed so far away. Would she lose him? Why was this woman writing now?
“She says she’s my mother,” he said, then repeated, “a mistake.”
“No.” Sara shook her head. “Not a mistake.” Her voice broke, she felt tears in her eyes. “Ay, hijito, hijito,” she cried.
He put his arms around her. “Who is she? Why does she call herself my mother?”
He should know the truth. One day he had to know the truth, and if the Johnson woman had broken the vow of silence, now was the time. Sara González had to tell her son she was not his mother. She had promised her husband that when the time came she would tell Abrán.
“There’s got to be a mistake. I’ll go over to the hospital in the morning—”
“No. Not a mistake,” she gasped and wiped her eyes with her apron. She looked into his eyes. She had to be strong, she could not hide the truth from him. “I want you to know I have always loved you,” she whispered.
“I know that,” Abrán answered, feeling empty inside. The woman who wrote the letter said she was his mother, and when he looked at Sara he knew it was true. It was his turn to feel the shock; his stomach turned and tightened. Sara was not his mother, and Ramiro was not his father. Perhaps he had always known this, but never faced it. He loved them too much, and their love for him was the love of a true father and mother.
“And I love you,” he said and held her hands, and felt their strength. “There’s a mistake.…”
“We adopted you. But we loved you like our son, our own blood.”
“Adopted?” The word rang hollow and wrenched his soul. The vague dreams of his identity suddenly became a disturbing reality. The light color of his skin, his eyes, his features that were not the features of this woman he called Mother.
You resemble your father, she had told him when he asked, but he remembered his father as a short, dark man. His skin was the color of the earth. Yes, I resemble my father, he agreed, and because he didn’t want to trouble her, he asked no more. But in the barrio there were whispers. The old people called him güerito.
“The woman who wrote the letter is your mother.”
He shook his head, turned and looked at the letter again. Cynthia Johnson. The artist? The daughter of the well-known banker? It couldn’t be. Somebody was playing a cruel joke. He was Abrán González, he had always been Abrán González. His mother was sitting in front of him, her name was Sara.
“Adopted?” he heard himself say again, and Sara’s eyes told him the world he once knew was slipping away. To steady himself he reached out and touched his mother’s hand.
“You were given to us, mi’jito,” she said and held his hands tightly. She did not want to let him go. She had raised him, she knew his soul, but he was not of her blood. What would Ramiro say? Tell the boy the truth. She needed Ramiro’s strength now that she felt so weak and useless.
“Ramiro worked for the family of el señor Johnson. From the time we came from Guadalupe, he worked for them as the gardener. For a while I worked, cleaning the house. We knew the family; we knew Cynthia from the time she was born.”
She took another drink of water and looked into Abrán’s eyes. The pain was as much his as hers. Would the truth separate them? She braced herself and continued.
“The girl grew. Cynthia. Cindy, the kids used to call her. When she was in high school she became pregnant. You see, they are rich, they did not want the child.”
Me, Abrán thought. They didn’t want me. I am that woman’s child, the unwanted baby.
“I would not lie to you, my son. It hurts me to tell you this.”
“Go on,” he said. He felt bruised, as if he had taken a beating, as if he had just come in from a long, tiring journey.
“Cynthia’s father wanted the girl to have an abortion, but the girl resisted. You were born, and you were given to us.”
“But you’ve never said anything,” he groaned. His life had been a lie, and the woman he had called Mother was part of that lie.
“We couldn’t!” She grasped him. “Don’t you see, we gave our word that we would never reveal the truth. El señor Johnson is a very rich man. He made us promise that we would never say anything.”
“And my father?” he asked. “Who is he?”
There was a long silence, then Sara sighed. “We never knew,” she said. “But Cynthia is your mother. Your blood.”
He looked again at the letter. “She’s dying. Cancer.”
“That is why she wants to see you.”
“All these years.” He shook his head.
She reached out and touched his cheek. “Don’t be harsh on me, mi’jito. We did what we had to do. We promised to raise you as best we could. Ramiro and I didn’t have children; we were hungry for children! And don’t be harsh on the woman who is your mother. She provided for you.”
“I should have known, I should have asked.”
“There was nothing to tell you. We took a vow, and until now the woman has never contacted us.”
“She sent money?”
“Yes. We had enough, Ramiro always worked. After he died she made sure we had what we needed. She was always generous.”
“Ah, damn, jefita!” Abrán cried, a sob escaping with the pain he felt. “I don’t know what to say.” He rose and looked out the kitchen window. Night had settled on the barrio. His mother rose to remove the food from the stove.
Where do I belong, Abrán wondered.
“I have to see her,” he said.
“Yes,” Sara said. “She needs you.”
“I’ll go right away.”
“Eat first.”
“Can’t.”
She understood. “I wish I could have made this easier,” she said, hugging him. “You are still my son.”
“I always will be,” he answered and tried to smile. He kissed her forehead and went out the door into the night. But now his world was different. In the night shadows there lurked a sense of danger. Who am I? he asked, and he did not know the answer.
My world has changed, he thought as he drove up the dark barrio street. That morning he had gone to classes, then hit the books. In the afternoon he called Joe and they jogged. Then the chance meeting with the writer, the fight, and finally the letter. In a short time the world was a very different place, and he was a man with a clouded past. How could this woman be his mother? And who was his father? He felt anger building inside, and he cursed the crumpled letter he held in his hand.
He, Abrán, had been born into the world an orphan, unwanted. What did he owe this woman? Nothing, he owed her nothing. Sara was his mother, she had raised him, he loved her. And Ramiro was his father. The old man with the smell of earth and sweat was the face he remembered as Father.
But old, nagging questions now made sense. Sara was now in her fifties. You were born late in our lives, she said once. Una bendición de Dios. He was fair-skinned, so he learned to smile when the old people in the barrio called him güerito, and he learned to fight when the dark-skinned Mexican kids made fun of him. “You’re not Mexican, güero,” they teased, and that barb hurt more than anything. He learned to take on the tough kids, and he grew skillful with his fists.
“I’ll show you I’m Mexican,” was his battle cry, and he cursed with the best barrio Spanish he knew and went in swinging. He grew tough, and by the time he was in middle school they no longer teased. He had become intensely proud of his Mexicanness by having to prove it, and during those crucial years of puberty he became the leader of a gang called Los Gatos.
Los Gatos, he remembered. We did some crazy things. At eighteen Paco wound up in the pen for distributing marijuana, and Ricky died of an overdose when he was a senior in high school. That had made Abrán snap. He didn’t need the stupid things they were doing, the drinking on weekends and partying. They had not thought about death until Ricky died. Abrán grew up that year, and he turned all his energy into boxing. His old coach, Rudy Sánchez, took him under his wing and made a boxer out of him.
Two of the guys, Polio and Jimmy, had married right out of high school, so they remained in the barrio. He saw them from time to time, but less and less as their families grew. He was the only one from the gang who tried college. Boxing had taught him discipline, and it had given him direction. But it was really Sara’s guidance that focused him on a meaningful future.
Sara was the only mother he knew. She lived her life for him. She was his mother, not Cynthia Johnson, not the woman who lay dying in the hospital.
He was deep in thought when an old woman ran in front of his car. He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. He saw her clearly, her wild hair flowing around the wrinkled face, the eyes wild and dark, the lips open in a scream that filled the night. La Llorona, he thought, the wailing woman of the barrio.
He felt a chill of adrenaline; his fingers clasped the steering wheel. Then the creature stepped into the headlights and he recognized doña Tules.
He breathed a sigh of relief and got out of the car; she stepped back into the shadows. Had he hit her? Why did she curse him? He had heard a lot of stories about doña Tules, how she roamed the streets at night and frightened the kids of the barrio. She really was a Llorona, but a flesh-and-blood one. She always appeared along this stretch of dirt road, because, as the story went, it was the road between the church and her shack near the river. People said she came out late at night to cry at the steps of the church where she was jilted long ago.
Sara said not to believe what people said about doña Tules. She was a kind soul, she had suffered much in life. She had lived alone so long that she had visions. She knew how to heal people, and she went to the church to light candles to the Virgin, not to cry.
“Doña Tules?” Abrán asked. “Are you all right?”
“Abrán de la Sara?” she asked hoarsely.
She was standing in the shadows, pointing at him. Dressed in a dirty and tattered gown, she drew close. Thank God he hadn’t hit her, he breathed in relief.
“Sí,” he answered.
“Your mother is dying, and you are being born,” she said. Her words sent a chill through Abrán.
“Come to me when you want to know the truth.”
“What truth?” he asked.
“Tú eres tú,” she said, and pointed a thin finger at him. Then she turned and fled. A long drawn-out cry filled the night around Abrán, chilling his blood anew.
“Doña Tules!” he called. Crazy old woman. What did she mean, Tú eres tú? Is that what he heard? You are you? Or did she say Tu-er-to? Blind? He shook his head and got back in the car. He looked into the shadows, but she was gone. He shivered and felt a cold sweat on his body.
Had he really seen her? It wasn’t a ghost, it was a woman, he was sure he had seen her. Doña Tules who lived alone and wandered the back alleys of the barrio; the barrio’s bag lady of the night. What did she mean?
“Who is la Llorona?” he had asked Sara when he was a child. “We, the mothers of the world, are the crying women, because we cry when our children suffer,” Sara had answered. “Every woman is a Llorona.”
He shook his head, got back in the car, and turned the ignition with trembling hands. In the rearview mirror he saw a swirling red light appear. A cop car cruising the barrio. He didn’t feel like explaining, so he eased forward. There was no pursuit, the red light turned a corner and was gone. Maybe that’s what he had heard, the cop’s siren?
At Central he stopped for a light. He would ask Sara what the old woman meant. Sara was one of the few women in the barrio doña Tules would visit. Once or twice a year she came by to have coffee. She drank in silence, took the clothes Sara had saved for her, and that was it.
A car honked and Abrán drove on, turning into the Central Avenue artery and joining the stream of the cruisers and lowriders celebrating Friday night. Here he was just one more child of the city, anonymous, not the child of Cynthia Johnson, not the troubled Abrán anguishing over what being her son meant. He flowed with the loud music and shouts of the kids in their customized cars. In their rite of spring he forgot for a moment the weight he carried, but when he turned toward the hospital he was Abrán again, Abrán being born into a new life. The point was now persistent; the woman dying of cancer at St. Joe’s was his mother. Would his father be there?