Let Their Spirits Dance (21 page)

“I've never been in a Catholic church before,” Willy says.

“I have,” Gates says. “Jesse took me there a couple of times, and I still remember all the candles, and big, old statues dressed like real people. Hey, Teresa, why do you guys burn so many candles?”

“They're prayers, Gates. Manuel over there can tell you more. He used to be an altar boy.” Manuel walks in with Priscilla and the kids. He makes the sign of the cross over himself.

“What's that for?” Gates asks him.

“It's a blessing. You do that to remind yourself that this is a holy place,” Manuel tells him.

“In China, they take off their shoes when they walk into a sacred place,” Willy says. “I was there with my dad once.”

Gates ducks down through an archway to go from one small room to the other.

“Didn't make them too tall, did they?” he says.

“You're too tall, Gates,” Susie says. “You should see some of the houses in the Philippines. They're smaller than this.”

Mom and Irene are taking turns using the kneeler. They cry and dab their eyes with Kleenex. Mom and Irene are mothers making their way back to their sons. Firstborn sons, hidden away from them all these years. Maybe that's another reason Mom's so tired. Her heart is beating as it did when Jesse was alive, except she's not forty anymore, she's almost eighty. Her heart can't decide what's making it come to life again.

Donna takes turns on the kneeler with the Guadalupanas. She's as reverent as they are, making the sign of the cross when she enters and leaves a holy place. I'm surprised she learned church etiquette so quickly. She's the first white woman I've ever seen who knows how to be a Guadalupana. Faith is what Donna respects. Faith is faith, no matter what
the religion, she says. Donna is big on Mom, so it's easy for her to respect La Virgen. Her mother was a drug addict and gave Donna up when she was a baby.

I make a call to Chris while everyone is sitting at an outdoor restaurant eating. He answers the phone on the first ring. I know he's been waiting for me.

“You're real close to me, Teresa,” he says. He sounds happy. His voice makes me long to see him. He gives me directions to get to Los Griegos, a neighborhood close to Old Town. “Everything here is named after some Spanish family, or Indian tribe,” he explains. Manuel is watching me on the phone. I make a sign to him for a paper and pencil and repeat the directions out loud so Manuel can write them down. After I hang up, Manuel's still looking at me like I've done something wrong.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, just that your face changed when you talked to Chris.”

“Changed?”

“Yeah, like you were real happy.”

“I am happy! I haven't seen Chris in years, plus I want to get to our rooms.”

Manuel stares at me for a few seconds, then reaches for his wallet to pay the bill. Outside, I notice a few tourists gathered around our cars, talking to the kids and taking pictures. One teenage girl is taking Cisco's picture. Once, twice, three times I see the flash go off, as Cisco strikes various wrestling poses.

“By the way, Teresa, where's Chris gonna ride? Isn't he bringing his wife?”

“He's divorced, Manuel. He's over at his mom's for now. Maybe he can help you drive. You can take turns.” I regret saying the words as soon as I've said them. Manuel looks as if I just kicked him.

“Yeah, that's you, right, Teresa? You can do with one or the other. It doesn't matter.”

“I can't believe you're saying this. All I care about is getting Mom to the Wall.”

“Really? There's more to it, and I…”

I don't let him finish. “I'm not going to argue with you!”

Priscilla passes between us. “What's going on?”

“What do you do, spy on me?”

“Can't help it. You're big sis, the big cheese around here. The one who gives the orders.”

“You mean the one Mom decided to put in charge.”

“Let's put it this way. You planned all this, Manuel's got the money, and me and Paul are just here for the ride.”

“So help me, when we get back home…”

“Threatening me? I think she's threatening me, Manuel.”

“I don't think so. She's just a little nervous about all this.”

“You don't have to defend me, Manuel. I can speak for myself.”

“And you do, all the time,” Priscilla says.

Mom is watching us, drinking a cup of tea. She stands up. “Mijas, let's go now. We can't keep Chris waiting. I haven't seen his mother in years, pobrecita. She was a drunk in the old days, but now she's too old for that. She was always after men, can you imagine, and her husband was so religious! She went after Pablo Jesús for a while. El nervio!”

I'm surprised to hear the passion in Mom's voice as she talks about Dad. “Doña Hermina was after Dad?”

“For a little while. She was just a big flirt. Pablo only had eyes for you know who, anyway. Sin verguenza!”

“Did you pay the bill, moneybags?” Paul asks Manuel.

“I got it.”

“Crazy. My own mother doesn't trust me with the money!”

“Don't start all this, Paul,” I tell him. “You've given everybody good reason not to trust you.”

“Another lecture from you! I've paid my dues. Wait until there's a warrant out for your arrest! If I remember clearly, you got a subpoena for a court hearing, and now you're out of state. That's rule one, sis, you gotta stay in-state.”

“To hell with the subpoena! I have more important things to do!”

Mom looks at me. “Don't cuss, mija!”

“Do you eat with that mouth?” Irene asks me.

Paul starts laughing. “It's getting to you, isn't it? I know the feeling. Run while you can, baby.”

Paul's laughter makes me even more defensive. “I'm not running anywhere. The whole nation knows where we are. The cops can just come and get me.” I say the words flippantly, then swing my purse over my shoulder, as if Paul's words don't mean a thing to me, and I'm ready to move on, no matter what happens.

Michael is already in their van with Angelo, connecting the phone to the laptop for incoming messages. He waves to me and gives me a thumbs up.

“It's working, Tía…the web page is a winner!” he yells.

“See, what am I telling you? It's no secret where I am.”

As we walk out of the restaurant, a waiter catches up to us. He's a kid, not much older than Lisa and Lilly.

“Aren't you the Ramirez family? The ones headed for the Vietnam Wall?”

“Yes, we are,” I tell him.

“Hey, Licos!” He calls another waiter. “I told you, man, these are the people I saw on TV last night. Can I take your picture? Right there,” he says, “with your mom and her friend, and your daughters. Fine-looking! Your daughters are fine. Do they want dates? Just kidding!”

Manuel and I pose with Mom, Irene, and the girls. The waiter and his friend Licos are all smiles, clicking the camera, then shaking our hands, and giving the girls a menu with their phone numbers on it.

W
e're racing now, or so it seems to me. La manda is the iron in our bones, the Wall is the magnet. I'm wondering if it's Mom's promise or Jesse's we're keeping, maybe they both made a manda, that's why it's so strong. We can't go back, can't even stop to get Mom checked by a doctor. It would waste too much time, and we don't have any. I'm afraid of turning back and afraid of getting to the Wall. If the Wall reminds us of our pain, why would we want to touch it? Maybe la manda is breaking pain's power. We're in pursuit of pain, instead of the other way around. If we're pursuing, does that make us more powerful than pain?

The Spanish names on the streets in Albuquerque get blurred in my mind, Don Pascual, Isleta, Emilio Lopez, Don Jacoba, and villages like Atrisco, Los Lunas, Los Padillas, Peralta. Chris lives in a neighborhood that looks like El Cielito. We pass
LA BOTICA
, a pharmacy advertising herbs and medicinal teas. Irene tells me that orange flower tea is used to calm the nerves and help you sleep, and pecan tree leaves are for anemia. Fig tree infusion, she says, is used to bring in milk for nursing mothers. “That's how I got my big chichonas and fed all my kids, even the last one, the one the doctors said was deformed, you remember Santiago who was born blue?”

“Cornsilk tea,” my mother says, “didn't I tell Matilde, that so-called mother of yours, to use it to clean out her kidneys, Manuel? No, she
never listened to me, and now look where she is, on a machine that sucks up all her blood. God only knows what's inside her veins once her blood goes round and round in those plastic tubes. May God forgive me, but maybe she deserves it for all she did to you.”

“No, Doña, don't think that way. She did take me in, after all.”

“Matilde never was a believer in herbs,” Irene says. “But look at this.” She holds up a strand of gray hair. “I had the darkest hair by drinking rosemary tea. Dark and shiny, maybe that's why Lencho married me. Look, see right here.” She pulls up her hair. “You can still see dark hair. Oh, and I used the rose of Castile to cleanse my eyes.”

“Why are you trying to stay young?” Mom asks her. “Eres vieja. Why don't you admit it, Irene, you've got one foot in the grave.”

“Don't talk to me about graves! My mother lived until she was one hundred and two.”

“What a pity. I would never want to live that long. Don't you remember Doña Mariana and how she lived to be over a hundred years old? She had to be put in a cradle with a baby bottle in her mouth. Then her kids never cleaned her face and the milk dribbled down the sides of her mouth. Sugar ants, can you imagine? Ants ate off half her face!”

“That's a lie!” Irene said. “Doña Mariana died long before she was put in a cradle.”

“Listen, the both of you,” I tell them. “Who cares about Doña Mariana…she's gone, you're still alive. Make the best of it.”

“That's the way it is with the young,” Irene says. “They think they will live forever, but you'll see, Teresa. Someday you'll look in the mirror, and an old woman will be staring back at you.” I look into the van's side mirror and see part of my sunglasses reflected back, a wavy, distant image. I wonder what my face will look like in twenty years.

I'm glad to see Chris's house as we turn into Los Griegos, his barrio. I wonder why they named the area Los Griegos, the Greeks. Chris's house is a framed adobe structure with a white picket fence circling the front yard. A stone flower pot extends the length of a large plate glass window. Wildflowers, purple, pink, and yellow catch my mother's eye. Huge shade trees dot the whole neighborhood and oblong strips of canals choked with grass and weeds run parallel to the streets. Mailboxes balanced on wooden poles line the dusty sidewalks.

“This looks like El Cielito,” Manuel says. “If we weren't in New Mexico, I'd swear we were back home.”

“It's greener out here,” I tell him.

Chris comes out as soon as we drive up. He's shorter than I remem
ber. His dark hair has turned gray at the temples. His face is still chiseled to perfection even though it's fuller. He's wearing sweats, a T-shirt, and a red bandana around his forehead.

“Why's he wearing that red bandana?” Manuel asks. “Is that the style around here?”

“I doubt it.”

I'm out of the van and in Chris's arms before I know what's happening. The smell of his cologne mixes in with sweat and the sweet smell of newly cut grass.

“You made it! You made it! Oh, God, God it's so good to see you.” He stands me at arms' length. “Look at you…more beautiful than ever!” He presses me up close again and we hug, swaying together. Both of us are crying. Instinctively, we wipe each other's tears away. “More beautiful than all the dreams I've had of you,” he whispers. Hugging him is like touching Jesse again. I can't let go. The pressure of his hands releases energy I've stored in my body since I last saw him.

“Can I get a hug?” Priscilla is standing next to us. Chris is still staring at me. We're clinging to each other. “He—llo! Can I get in on the action?”

“Yes! Sorry, I'm dazzled by all this beauty.” He gives Priscilla a big hug, lifting her up and turning her around. “Jesse's kid sister…all grown up!”

Manuel is standing behind me. He mimics my steps, moving just at the right time, to avoid my stepping on him.

“You remember Manuel, don't you, Chris?”

“Hey, sure…how's it going?” He shakes Manuel's hand.

“Sorry about the headband,” he says, taking it off, “I was cutting the grass, trying to keep the sweat off my face.”

“Hey, there's Gates and Willy!” The three men shake hands and pound each other's backs. “We're not old, are we, guys?”

“There ain't nothin' old about me!” Gates says.

“I should ask your wife,” Chris says.

“Which one?” Gates asks. They both laugh.

Chris looks at Willy and Susie. “Are you running your dad's store?”

“Yep. Me and Susie, here. Just what I said I'd never do. But you know Mom and Dad. I'm the oldest. They'd die if I didn't do things the traditional Chinese way.”

“Man, this is great, to see you all again!” Chris shakes his head, as if he can't believe it's really happening. “At ease, men, at ease,” he says, laughing.

Mom is out of the van now, and Chris leaps to her side. “Doña Ramirez! How are you? How was the trip. Look…no wonder your daughters are so beautiful, you look like a queen!” He bends down and gently holds her to his chest. My mother is crying, her body shuddering with each sob.

“Ay mijito, all I can think of is Jesse when I see you! My poor mijito…how I miss him!”

“Yes, Doña, we all miss him—to this day!”

Mom introduces Irene to Chris. Irene is crying, too. Chris gives her a hug.

“Did you know my son, Faustino Lara?”

“I remember him when I lived in El Cielito. A great man, your son. Jesse said he was a good friend to him.”

“My son is on the Vietnam Wall, too.”

“Lo siento, I'm sorry,” Chris says. He holds Mom and Irene, tenderly, one on each arm, and soothes them. Then he looks up at all of us, smiling. “Wow, what a mix! Jesse would have loved this! Hey, you guys are making big news! We saw you last night on TV. Who's the smart kid who started your web page?”

“That's Michael,” I tell him, “Paul's son.”

“Paul? Little Paul has a son?” He turns around and looks at Paul. He takes a step, then stops, stares, and shakes his head. “Man, your face. You got the look of Jesse in your eyes.” He walks over, claps both hands on Paul's shoulders, and tousles his hair, “Jesse would have been proud of you! He talked about you a lot in Nam.”

“He did?” Paul searches Chris's face. “What did he say?”

“What didn't he say? He remembered all the jokes he played on you, and what a good sport you were. The best, he used to say, mi carnalito, he's got some guts, gonna be a great man some day. So, are you?”

“Am I what?”

“A great man?”

“I've done some detours, but I'm working on it. Right, Donna? This is my girlfriend,” he says.

“Good name, Donna. Isn't that the name of one of Richie Valens' songs? Nothing like a good woman to back up a man. And your son, Paul? Where's the whiz kid?”

Paul calls Michael over. “Mijo, get over here. Chris wants to meet you.”

“Mijo?” Priscilla asks. “Did I hear right? That's a first!”

Michael gets off the van, minus the laptop. He stands next to Paul,
smiling. Paul circles one arm around his neck. “What do you think, huh? Ramirez brains! My son could get us to Mars and back. He's got the right stuff!”

“Smart like your Tío Jesse,” Chris says. “Man, Jesse would be strutting right now. Proud. Remember when he'd get into the ring, and do that little dance before a fight? He'd be dancing big time right now! Seriously now, Michael, you gonna get us to Mars and back? We'll be the first Chicano astronauts on the red planet. All we'll need to add is white and green, and we got the Mexican flag up there. What do you think?”

“Yeah, we'll do it!” Michael says.

“What about the web site? You getting lots of responses?”

“I've got over a hundred already, and we just started. Dad's been helping out, now that he knows how to send e-mails.”

“Maybe I can help, too. I probably know some of the guys.”

Chris's mother walks slowly out the door, a duplicate of the Guadalupanas, in a plaid dress and slip-ons. Following behind her, two heads taller, is her daughter, Queta. By now, everyone else is in the front yard, and there are handshakes and hugs all around. My mother and Doña Hermina are the same height, When they hug, their foreheads touch. Doña Hermina invites us into the house. I pinch myself to make myself believe we're not back home. Pictures of La Virgen, the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and St. Michael with his foot on the devil's neck remind me of Mom's house. There is a big pot of cocido, hearty beef and vegetable soup, simmering on the stove. In one corner of the kitchen is an old wood stove, a remnant of early Spanish days. I smell the aroma of freshly cooked tortillas and pause to think that Doña Hermina and her daughter Queta probably make them every day. It makes me feel guilty when I think of all the instant soups my kids eat. Both women are perfectly genteel, smiling, inviting us in. We just ate an hour ago, but there is no question that we will eat again, refusing to do so would be a slap in the face. The old women from Phoenix acquired the title Doña as soon as we crossed the state line. Now it's Doña this and Doña that. We're in New Mexico, where families follow strict traditions, and the way of our ancestors, los antepasados, rules.

Chris tells me Queta's never been married. She's broad and sturdy with bushy eyebrows and the handshake of a wrestler. She'd be a good ally in a fistfight. I'd like to set her up against Sandra in the near future. Queta motions toward Gates with her eyes. She whispers in my ear, “He's sooo cute!” I think of her and Erica and know they would be equally matched in a fight. I'm hoping Gates doesn't fall for Queta. She's
already serving him a huge bowl of cocido and setting out hot corn tortillas for him.

I'm amazed at the chile in New Mexico. Tata O'Brien would have already put some of the pods in his pocket to dry for seeds. Two wooden dining-room tables are set with an assortment of chile and chile sauces in ceramic bowls. A platter piled high with sopaipillas, soft, doughy bread, is centered at each table. Tata often talked about New Mexico chile, examining chile pods and cutting slits into them to examine their interiors. If the chiles were hot enough he'd keep his hands out of his eyes for days.

“Try them at your own risk,” Queta says, laughing. “Really the hottest are probably the serranos and the chipotles. No, Mama?”

Doña Hermina nods. “Chile de arbol is hot, too, and sometimes jalapeños, depending on the crop.”

“The rest of them won't put you into shock,” Queta says. “They'll just make you sweat.” She looks over at Gates, and he looks back at her.

“I like that!” he says. They both smile at each other.

“Good for your sinuses,” Chris adds quickly.

“My doctor says not to eat chile—what do you think about that?” asks Irene.

“Don't listen to him,” Doña Hermina tells her. “Los doctores told me I was going to die last year. Imagine! Talking to me like they were God!”

We all sit at the tables. Manuel pulls a chair out for Priscilla, and I move one chair over, and sit next to Chris. The last thing I want to do is eat. I want to move. I want to chase la manda across America before my mother's strength gives out. Chris's hand is within inches of my own. I have to fight the urge to slip my hand into his. I can't believe he's next to me. My mind is playing games with me. It's '68, and Jesse will walk into the room any minute now. This is their going-away party. There's a part of me holding onto the fantasy every time I look at Chris. Then when I stare across the table at Mom, the fantasy dissolves, only to gain strength when I see Chris again. Chris and I reach for the same bowl of sauce at the same time.

“You first, Teresa.” He serves the sauce for me. “Here, take a sopaipilla. Mom made them this morning.”

I notice the kids using their spoons to pick out tender chunks of meat and potatoes in their bowls of cocido, bypassing the onions and cabbage. Michael and Angelo set aside their corn on the cob to saturate separately with butter and salt.

“Ni lo pienses,” says Doña Hermina. “Don't even think of leaving tonight! I already have the beds ready, and the kids can sleep on blankets
on the floor. There's the cuartito out in the back yard too, the one my father used when he was still alive. We've got two beds in there for los muchachos. The women and kids can sleep in the house.”