Jemez Spring (37 page)

Don't forget the dead, the elders said. Ancestor worship? Call it what you want, it's part of our heritage. Say masses, light candles, erect shrines by the side of the road, descansos to be visited because the soul was eternal and oftentimes restless, as everyone who had ever lived in the culture or read its cuentos knew. Some scoffed at this. Bah! Prayers for the dead! That's for the Chinese, the Koreans, the old Aztecs and Mayas. But get a life, this was the twenty-first century, the Digital Age. Ghosts? Spirits? Wasn't that for Hollywood? After all, this was the age of quantum psychology. Forget Freud!

No, replied the old Hispanos in the wisdom of their mestizo heritage. They're here. We can feel them. Leave a glass of water under your bed at night, for the dead feel thirst. This way they don't wake you up. Pray for them, they are on a journey. And just who do you think the santos are? The saints are our old people who have died. Our ancestors! We pray to them to help us. Santa mamá. Santo papá. Santo Abuelito. Santa Abuelita. Santo Tío, Santa Tía. Those you loved and who loved you in life became santos. So there! Period!

Yes, we let them go, and yet they remain. What is memory but the psyche's library where everything is stored? Sometimes it's like a tomb for quiet, contemplative times. Sometimes it's like a wild party. A fiesta! Let's drink and dance as they loved to drink and dance! We remember! We remember! As long as we remember, they live. So don't act like you know it all, Mr. Smarty Pants!

That's the way it is, Sonny thought. The tenses of time blended into each other, not only in the dream time, but also in that time known as ordinary time. The creative mind was always at work, blending its thoughts into the soul's growth. That's why so many people were attracted to the land of the Pueblos, because here the geography was still sacred, and one could watch the clouds on summer days and let time dissolve into its purer essence. The earth and sky were the true alchemists. So always remember to watch the clouds.

The old man saying that he would be around as long as Sonny was around was the promise of a real friend, compromiso de fé, and such a commitment elevated Sonny and made him feel he had bonded with don Eliseo during his stay on earth, made him understand a loving relationship is the miracle of life. The bell tolled for the departed as well as for those left on this side, as the poet said, and it rang at odd times when the heart swayed and trembled and remembered those now gone.

The old man's promise reminded him of his responsibility to all of life, flesh or spirit, for if a friend so loved his companion that even after death he would be there to lend a hand, one had to live a good life.

Go home to Rita, the old man said. Get rid of those pesky suitors who are hanging around the cafe. They're making goo-goo eyes at Rita like lovesick calves. Philanderers! Don't worry about me, I'm going to hang around for a while. There are a lot of interesting spirits in this city, like the old timers we met on Central. On Saturday afternoons when they promenade downtown I'll join them. Think of it, mihito, me sauntering down Central Avenue with Clyde Tingley and Ernie Pyle. Cool, huh?

Sonny laughed. “Yeah, cool.”

He drove north on Fourth Street, funky Fourth, an avenue he loved, into the heart of downtown where the revelry of the afternoon had died down. Those workers who had partied hard had been called on their cell phones to get home to supper, the kids' homework, family affairs, late payment of the rent or alimony, plugged toilets, all the diurnal necessities of the cotidal day.

Now, those walking the gaily lighted streets were mostly yuppies who came downtown to enjoy the Spring Arts Crawl evening. They went from gallery to gallery, exclaiming, “yes,” and “ah” and “well done.” They strolled hand in hand in the friendly evening air and entered to taste the offered wine, small chalices they quaffed as they spoke of Michelangelo. These art lovers were joined by university students who were feeling the pressure of the semester winding down and exams coming, and so, many a kantharos of beer was quaffed in the hoot and hollering night.

And always, the homeless roaming the streets, like the silvery minnows of the river with no still waters in which to rest. There were shelters and food at the Baptist church on Broadway and at Joy Junction, and various other places, but a spring restlessness drove them through the streets, lonely and often desperate fish in the stream of life.

And even they could say at end of day, all's well that ends well.

Sonny drove around downtown then back onto Fourth, past the new modern courthouses. Visions for the new Alburquerque took the form of steel and concrete, and the movers and shakers of the city smiled. The City Future was on a sailor's holiday, heady with growth, building, singing, playing politics, hustling for money, all the necessary trappings needed to define itself in the new century. Four flags had flown over the city in the past: Spanish, Mexican, American, Confederate. The fifth yet to be designed would emblazon the logo, City Future, in a glorious, rising sun. Five flags over Burque.

A sense of relief washed over Sonny as he drove up the familiar street. The day was done. The coming night was a welcome relief His stomach growled for a hot plate of enchiladas, refried beans, and rice, all covered with Rita's red chile, and piping-hot, puffy sopaipillas that melted in his mouth, and perhaps a beer with dinner.

But here's the tricky part. An adventurer about to touch on the shore he left long ago at once welcomes the sight of the port where loved ones wait, and at the same time wonders if the future yet holds another journey, images of tantalizing places he has not seen.

So Sonny wondered. He had gone into the four seasons in search of Raven, explored the four quadrants, entered the fourth dimension and learned that in other universes there might yet be eleven or twelve more dimensions to explore, depending on who did the defining. But for now, four was the parameter, the cosmology that maps a man's life, his heart, his humors, his family, his neighborhood, the city, the country, the universe.

If the four quadrants are laid to rest on a flat plane then the Tree of Life, that same tree where Adam and Eve met the charmed snake and began their adventures, rests right at the center. But a flat geography does not satisfy the adventurer. Curve the flat surface and the picture becomes clearer. There is always someone coming from or going to ill-fated Ilium. America becoming Latino. Chinese. Korean. America becoming Woman.

When will is not enough, destiny pushes the adventurers forward to describe their needs and geography. And in every man and woman there is a call to approach the tree and test the branches that stretch into the heart of heaven, the zenith, and, if need be, to explore its roots into the pit of the underworld, nadir of the soul.

Perhaps Sonny yet had to climb the tree, unify the four directions with the fifth, the up and down, climbing upward into the branches where, as if climbing a family tree, he would meet the damnedest ancestors and the role they once played in his coming into being. And he would descend into the roots, the four main tap roots, each with its tentacles digging into the dark earth, the blood of his body that nourished him. Like Dante descending into inferno, he might search the bowels of soul for meaning, and likewise, also meet there the
damnedest ancestors
.

That's what the whole chingadera was about, as far as Sonny could make out. Make unity of light and shadow, unity of self.

Perhaps there was another season. A fifth season, the call to understand the Tree of Life, the middle, unifying ground. Everyone should know by now that the tree is anchored in the soul. To climb or descend is to explore the psyche, one's inner self, the essence that in daily life most hardly notice, until life presents an overwhelming trauma. Then the injured pilgrim must ask, Who am I? Is this my soul that speaks to me? Why had I not seen this tree before? Why have I not run up and down its fatherly trunk, like a child, exploring the secrets and knowledge it holds of my true self? If this tree planted in my heart is fed by my blood, why am I a stranger to it?

Ah, so many questions left unanswered in one day's story. Many would be disappointed, perhaps want their money back, for a private investigator was supposed to solve hard-core crimes, answer all the questions, not indulge in speculation of life's journey. Such questions are for philosophers, or the idle, or the
inocentes
of the world. Had one day in the life of a PI been twisted too far? Was this for simpler minds, therefore, unacceptable? Who, out in that wide flat world that stretched only as far as his front yard, would be satisfied?

Sonny thought. Yes, the fifth season might prove even more phantasmagorical than today's adventure. Best leave it at that. Best do our daily work in the here and now, but work consciously, praising the Light that arrives each morning with the rising of the sun, praise the saints and kachinas, praise the Lords and Ladies of the Light. Bless all of life.

Ah, he moaned, what a day, and only Rita's arms would make right the day's adventure.

He was tired. It had been a long journey homeward. Not even the glitter of the street aroused him. He only thought of Rita. Perhaps this was his last great adventure, as he had promised the last time. Maybe when the cops or whoever was in trouble with Raven called the next time he would say no, and mean it. He would stay home, helping Rita, the small cafe would become their bonding place, a place where they could work together, build a life together. And later there would be children, their own or adopted, lots of kids to run around the cafe and grow strong on New Mexican food: frijoles, maize, calabacitas, menudo, carne adovada, tortillas, sopa, natillas, huevos rancheros, tofu and plenty of greens if some became vegetarians.

They would name the cabroncitos after the food they ate. Girls would be Maize and Natillas, boys would be Menudo and Carnitas. The strong boy would be Tortillon, the gay child Sopaipilla.

Happiness is what mattered.

A man cannot help but dream, he thought as he pulled into the parking lot of Rita's Cocina. Usually he parked in the back, but tonight he had to enter through the front door to face the home-boys, the suitors, don Eliseo called them, who had hung around too long. They would feel his fury, smell the blood of the sow on his colorful jacket, smell the muddy river ooze on his boots.

What weapon to use? The battered and torn dreamcatcher, of course. He picked it up. Yes, better than bow and arrows, he could whip a hundred with the magic in the dreamcatcher. Make every mother's son regret he thought Sonny was dead and Rita was ripe for the picking.

He gathered Chica in his arms and walked to the door. The place was rowdy, loud and noisy with the braggarts as they munched on Rita's pastelitos de manzana and washed them down with coffee. They were tired of waiting because it was past six o'clock and, even if the governor was dead, the bomb hadn't blown and the cell phones were working. But still no trace of Sonny Baca.

These were young men Sonny knew. Electricians, plumbers, roofers, guys who worked for the city or the telephone company, a teacher who taught at Taft, a lawyer, and two off-duty cops, all refusing to go home until Rita admitted Sonny wasn't coming, closed up the cafe, and said,
yes, one of you can drive me home
.

Movida time, the Chicanos called such an opportunity. If you're young and horny and Rita's man is not coming home, then you don't waste time. Put the pressure on. Make her say yes. She can't go on stalling them with her sweet apple pies and her blend of coffee that stimulates the blood.

Are you coming with me? he asked the old man.

No, the old man replied. You have new companions. He nodded toward the two spirits who stood by Sonny.

We'll be at your side, father, the girls said in sweet unison, their auras lighting the way.

He looked at his spirit daughters. They stood before him as beautiful and innocent as the bloom on a rose, so harmless they couldn't hurt a fly, but walking at his side they were the courage he needed, uplifting his soul as only a child can do. He felt like crying. Would it never end, this gift life had given him? Was every man so lucky to feel the presence of love at his side, guardian angels protecting every step?

Well, the old Greeks had Athena or Artemis, Zeus and the sea god Poseidon, or other gods to help in time of need. Other people had Thor. Desert people had prophets full of words they took from the mouth of God. The Aztecs had the Winged Serpent, El Señor Quetzalcoatl, he who brought wisdom, and dozens of lesser gods. Dream Time spirits. Kachinas. Catholics had their saints. On and on it went. All the traditional people from every corner of the world had their guardian spirits.

Was this so new? No. Perhaps the uncertainty came because the present age of disbelief had killed the spirit. Science had erased the angels from the monitor screens, forgotten that transformation of the spirit is as important as conquering the physical laws.

Sonny straightened his shoulders. Come then, he said, let us go and make our visit.

He opened the door of the cafe, and all inside turned to look at him.

26

“Sonny?” the one closest to the door gasped, looking up as if he'd seen a ghost, questioning in his mind the appearance of the weary hero, eyeing the dreamcatcher that Sonny held like the jawbone of an ass. Was he going to smite the suitors?

The boisterous group were no Chaldeans, no soothsayers whose language the world has forgotten. These were the common laborers of the city who turned to look at the battered and bruised Sonny Baca, the ghost of an ancient mariner risen from the cosmic sea, a man who had washed his sins in the Ganges, trailing seaweed and algae he had returned, one eye nearly closed from a blow received at war, a Greek hero returning home from Troy, if Jemez Springs can be conceived as Troy, and Burque as his Ithaca, and if the world would allow a Chicano to be as heroic as those who fought on the fields of Ilium.

The old men of the northern New Mexico pueblos would say Yes! Seguro que sí! Goddamnit que sí! Porque no? Because in their youth their grandfathers had been at the battle of Embudo, fighting Kearney's Army of the West, and some had been at the deposing of Governor Bent in Taos. Deposing? Well, those first Chicano heroes along with some Taos Pueblo natives did Bent in. Later, their grandchildren had been with Tijerina fighting to keep their land grants, and so went the forgotten battles for survival and for love.