Let Their Spirits Dance (23 page)

J
esse changed his name to El Gato when he started boxing for Trini Bustamante, the best trainer south of the river. Trini was a nino, a godfather to all his boxers. He worried about them, scolded them, made them eat, made them sweat, and taught them to pick out his voice in a crowd of hundreds shouting at them during a fight. Trini was short like Jesse and could be loud or quiet to match the thoughts going through his head. He had trophies galore he collected from his vatos, the swinging, swaying dudes of the Mexican world. Alert, alive, fed on jumping beans, jalapeños, and tortillas made by their sainted mothers, his boys took championships all the way to New York City. Trini had them practice to the music of the Mexican Hat Dance to stir them up to their calling.

“Ramirez, Ramirez! Your mommy smells like tequila! You look like you're playing with dolls! Come on, ballerina, shake a leg!” He yelled all kinds of things at Jesse to test his concentration. “One wrong turn and you're a goner. See this eye?” He would take off his sunglasses to show everyone the slit of eye on the left side of his face. He had refused surgery and wore the eye like a badge of courage.

“The crowd will hound you! Los jodidos! That's the way people are, bloodthirsty. They want you to look at them just to mess you up.” Trini danced away jabbing at the air, fighting an invisible opponent for his eye.

“POW! POW! One for your precious momma who smells like tequila. One for your grandma who smokes marijuana, ha, ha!”

Trini trained his boys at the Golden Gate Gym across the street from ol' Perez's Dry Cleaners. I always waved at ol' Perez when I saw him standing outside his cleaners in his wrinkled clothes. “Es la verdad,” Mom used to say, “whatever a man knows how to do he never does for himself or his home. Look at your dad, works in construction and our house is falling down all around us!”

I went to the Golden Gate Gym on afternoons Jesse practiced to watch him spar. “You've got to stay loose, ballerina,” Trini shouted. “Loose but quick…loose, loose, jab, jab…you're getting it. Stay inside, stay inside…loose, loose, jab, jab.” It was a chant.

Jesse taught me the four main punches, jab, right hand, uppercut, left, right hook. Jesse's best combination was the overhand right, left hook. Drops of sweat dribbled from El Gato's forehead and down his face when he was in the ring. His normally slender jaw bulged under his mouthpiece like a jack-o-lantern's. His perfectly straight teeth were hidden underneath it. “Don't forget your mouthpiece, Jesse. Your mouthpiece, your mouthpiece.” That was my worry. I didn't want a toothless brother. I knew we didn't have any money for dentists.

The crack of leather on leather sounded like a firecracker had gone off under a pillow. It made me nervous, especially if Jesse was getting the worst of it. Usually he wasn't. He took the name El Gato. It fit him because Jesse was dark, quick, and sly like a cat with its ears flinching and its body ready to leap. Trini gave him an old speed bag to practice on at home. Gates, Willy, Faustino, and Chris would come over and spend hours, taking turns on the speed bag hanging from a wooden beam in my dad's old garage. I brought out towels for them to wipe their sweat and water to drink. I practiced my cheerleader moves with Priscilla while they boxed. Ricky Navarro from next door came over a few times but said he was a lover, not a fighter.

I liked watching the guys, especially Chris. Of all Jesse's friends, he was the best-looking. He was taller than Jesse, light, his jaw square, his hair dark, wavy. His face looked chiseled, like the faces I had seen on Greek heroes in my history book. His dad didn't let him box, because he said there was already enough fighting in the world. In high school, Chris moved to Albuquerque, and I didn't see him again until the night before he and Jesse left for Fort Benning.

The last time Jesse boxed was at University Park where they set up a ring for the Metropolitan State Tournament. Frank Rodriquez, a famous
boxer, came by to hand out trophies. The winners were slated to go to Las Vegas and fight national champions. Mom and Nana came that night to watch. It was the first and last time they ever sat in the audience. Jesse boxed featherweight against Andres El Animal, who was known to let loose in such a way that the other boxer had to fight for his life. Nana held onto her Virgen medallion the whole time Jesse was in the ring, holding it up to her lips every once in a while. Dad had bought popcorn for Paul and Priscilla. Somehow Mom got so excited she ended up flipping the popcorn bag into the air. Some of it landed in her hair and still she kept yelling, “Get him, mijo! Ay, Dios mio, I can't take another minute!”

Actually, the fight didn't last very long, but Mom said it was the longest fight of her life. When Jesse went down, Dad had to tackle Mom to keep her from rushing into the ring. Jesse left for Vietnam with the scar Andres El Animal gave him over his left eyebrow. It was the only fight Jesse ever lost, until he got to Vietnam.

 

• A
LL THE GUYS
from the Golden Gate Gym showed up the night we said good-bye to Jesse. Trini came by showing off his bad eye, telling the guys that's what happens to you when you don't concentrate. Los vatos wanted to take a few shots at El Gato before he left, teasing, jabbing him right and left. A mass of relatives, primos, tías, tíos, crowded around Jesse, toasting beer cans for his safe return and making speeches about everything crazy they remembered about him. His gabacho friends from college were there, burning their tongues on Mom's hot tamales and loving it. Mom, Nana, Irene, and Tía Katia piled up tamales, rice, beans, salads, filling up bowls with menudo. Even ol' Duke got into the act, knocking kids down in the backyard for scraps of food.

Music was playing, playing like crazy. “Solitary Man” over and over again, “Blue Velvet,” “Louie, Louie,” “Respect.” Jesse laughed, talked with his friends, Gates, Willy, Chris, and Manuel, who had a deferment to stay in school. Manuel said he loved me, and I ignored him. I wanted to pull on his ears like a puppy dog.

Chris came by from Albuquerque to leave on the same plane with Jesse. His breath smelled like Doublemint and beer, lots of beer. “Your sister, the cheerleader. Sing me a cheer, Teresa!” I was afraid of him, afraid of the urgency I sensed from him, afraid of life and death. I might never see him again. We might cling too long, cling too strong. They were
both going so far away. There was a thud in me. Something that hit a brick wall when I thought of Vietnam. The word
Vietnam
rose in my mind, and I pushed it away, flesh and blood was still real to me. I ran up to Jesse all night, touching him, his face, his shoulder, sparring with him, playing tag, he was home base. I tell you I was crazy. Jesse was slipping away from me. I'd have to watch the news every night to try to catch a glimpse of him on TV, where figures were only six inches tall.

It was at Jesse's farewell party that I started to repeat words in my head like a singsong chant, like El Ganso who sang instead of talked. I didn't want to feel like me, like Teresa, named after Saint Teresa, the patron saint of Avila, Spain who ran around building convents, levitating in the air, and her nuns had to grab her by the heels to keep her grounded.

Jesse was this skinny kid, in my mind, with bony elbows that stuck up under his shirt and knobby knees that bulged under his Levi's. It was impossible that he'd carry an M-16 and use it to kill somebody.

It was winter outside, January. The house was warm, too warm, from the steam made by big pots on the stove. I wanted it to be the celebration of La Virgen de Guadalupe all over again so Jesse and I could run up and down the steps at St. Anthony's and breathe hazy circles in the frosty morning air.

Nana Esther sat in the bedroom with the veladoras flickering around her, the matriarch, queenly. She wanted to give Jesse her blessing, the blessing of a holy woman, a Guadalupana who had won the favor of the Mother of God. She didn't turn on the ceiling light, only the candles, she knew the prayer, La Oración del Justo Juez, the Prayer to the Just Judge, by heart:

“Keep it in your wallet, yes, please, mijito. God will protect you. The prayer won't fail you.” Later she gave it to Chris, to Willy, to Gates. Jesse knelt in front of Nana, and she extended her hand over him. “I bless you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. May God get you safely to Vietnam and bring you back home again!”

Her voice broke. She held him in her arms, his head on her lap. He was her baby, still. Mom and Dad knelt down with Jesse, crying, hugging him. I stood over them, tears falling, looking at the throbbing heart of familia.

A
t Doña Hermina's I place a call to Elsa in Phoenix. It's early Monday morning, the second of June. The day is pleasantly warm. A breeze is blowing, stirring up the treetops and clumps of tall grass that grow along the canals.

“You got a call from your lawyer, Sam Diamond,” Elsa tells me. “He's mad at you because you left town without telling him. He says he can't postpone the court date, and that a warrant might be issued for your arrest.”

“Tell him he better get me out of this! What am I paying him for? Slick Sam! He knows I had to take this trip.”

“Wanna talk to Dad?”

“What for? He's going to court with Sandra, for God's sake.”

“Mom, he still loves you.”

I laugh, remembering the old ladies, and how they laughed when they thought of men and love. “Loves me? If he loved me, he'd try to get me out of this trouble. Most of it is his fault anyway. Nice try, Elsa. I tried all kinds of things, too, that I thought would make my mom and dad happy, and nothing ever worked.” I feel angry with myself, and wonder why I wasted my time fighting over Ray in the first place.

Elsa tells me she's been watching us on TV, and that some news stations are charting our route. “Get ready, Mom,” she says. “It looks like everybody in America is going on this trip with you.”

“That's scary,” I tell her. “I wanted publicity, but this is too much.” We say good-bye, and I'm left worrying about the publicity Elsa just told me about. One thing is certain. If there's a warrant out for my arrest, they won't have any trouble finding me.

I call Jimenez Elementary to ask Shirley how things are going, and Clara answers.

“Where are you, Teresa?” she asks. “Everybody in Phoenix is watching the news about your family. The kids at school are excited. Your class is writing you letters.”

“Letters? That's wonderful! But where will they send them? We're in Albuquerque. We'll be heading out today and stop for the night in Colorado Springs. Have Lorena Padilla, my assistant, collect the letters. I'll pick them up when I get back to Phoenix.” I stop myself from saying any more, remembering I'm talking to Clara, the rumor queen.

“Guess who's not here anymore?” Clara asks. Her voice rises with excitement.

“Mr. H., who else?”

“Oh, you should have seen him at the last faculty meeting! He looked so pathetic, but you know he's a back-stabber. I never liked him.”

“He didn't want me to tell Jesse's story to my class. That's what I remember.”

“Well, good riddance then! Maybe they'll send us somebody who can lead the school, but I doubt it. Everything is politics, you know that as well as I do. Anyway, let's get to the good part. Met anybody interesting yet, Teresa? You know the saying…so many men, so little time!”

“Huh, no. Listen, is Shirley there? I want to ask her if there's anything else I have to do. I handed in my report cards and my end-of-year check-out form. Lorena Padilla's got the classroom keys.”

“Oh, Shirley? She's visiting her mother in Wisconsin. She should be back next week. Everything's in order, Teresa. But let's get to the good part. Any new man on the horizon?”

“Listen, I gotta go. Say ‘hi' to everybody for me.” Ending my conversation with Clara is like springing out of a trap. Now I'm worried thinking who we'll get to take Mr. H.'s place. I can see Annie Get Your Guns and the rest of the teachers cheering their victory. It might be short-lived after they see Mr. H.'s replacement.

 

• B
EFORE BREAKFAST
is served, we get a call from a local news station.

“How did they find out where we're staying?” I ask Michael.

“They saw us last night in Old Town. I couldn't tell if they were reporters or tourists. I guess they were reporters.”

“Yeah, right, you couldn't tell who they were.”

“They asked us questions,” Angelo says, “lots of questions, and Michael showed them our itiner…how do you say it?”

“You mean our itinerary?”

“Yeah. The map of where we're going.”

“Oh, great!”

Chris walks in with a newspaper in his hand. “Look, Teresa, here's a story about your family.” I look at bold letters taking up one side of the front page:
RAMIREZ FAMILY VISITS ALBUQUERQUE
. There are pictures of our vehicles and of the kids shopping in Old Town.

“I'm getting nervous about all this, Chris.”

Mom and Irene walk in. “What's making you nervous?” Mom asks.

“Stories about us, Mom. Publicity. People talking.” I look out the front window and see a pick-up with the words
NEWS CHANNEL
10 on its door. “Here we go.”

“Don't worry,” Mom says. “What can they do to us, pobrecitos, they have to make a living. Remember that poor girl who talked to me at the house?”

“You mean Holly Stevens? She's the one responsible for all this. And she's not a poor girl, Mom. These people are out to sell their stations and newspapers.” Lisa and Lilly run in from the front yard.

“Mom, the news people want to know how Nana's doing,” Lilly says.

“See, mija, they care.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Here, Alicia,” Irene says, helping Mom to the window. “Stand here, and wave to them.” Manuel and Priscilla walk in. “What's going on?” Priscilla asks.

“Nana's waving at the news people,” Lisa says.

“Oh my God! How are we ever gonna get to the Wall with the whole country chasing after us?”

“Don't get excited,” Manuel says. “They'll tire out. The media is fickle. Something else will attract their attention.”

“I hope you're right,” I tell him.

We sit down to breakfast, and Queta already has a plate ready for Gates. They look at each other as if they're school kids who just came in
from a first date. Doña Hermina watches her daughter closely, but doesn't say anything.

Paul and Donna walk in with Susie and Willy. Everybody's taking a place at the tables. Priscilla and I help Queta set out the huevos rancheros, potatoes, ham, salsa, sopaipillas, juice, and coffee. The food smells delicious, and everybody digs in. For dessert, there's pan de huevo, a variety of Mexican pastry, fruit empanadas, rolls, and gingerbread cochitos like the one Jesse ate on the plane to Vietnam.

After breakfast, I get a call from Espi.

“I just talked to Elsa,” she says. “Your attorney called and told her he just got word that Sandra's dropped the charges on you.”

“She did?” A sense of relief flows through me.

“Yeah, she said she didn't want to be blamed for putting the daughter of a hero in jail.”

“The daughter of a what?”

“A hero! Don't you know? Your mom is being called a hero, the first Nana hero this country has ever known, publicly, that is.”

“My little stubborn mom is a hero? What makes her a hero?”

“Are you kidding me? She's taking her life into her own hands by making this trip. She's answering her son's call to get to the Wall. This is a life-and-death situation. Then there's the whole thing about the money. How many other families did the government cheat? Poor families, minority families, victimized. That's what the stories are saying. Your mom's a symbol of all the other moms who lost their sons in Vietnam.” She pauses and waits for me to say something. “Teresa, are you still there? This should make you happy. What's wrong?”

“We're a week away from the Wall. I don't know what's gonna happen. She might make it, she might not. All these memories coming at us! Is Mom strong enough to take all this?”

“You told me not too long ago, not to be so uptight, and to stop worrying. Now I'm telling you, Teresa, get a hold of yourself. Things will work out. You're doing what your Mom wants you to do. Now, what about Chris? How's he doing?”

“He's OK.”

“He's OK, and you're crying?”

“It's a lot more than that, Espi. It's everything. Like the stories say, it's life and death.”

 

• B
EFORE WE LEAVE
A
LBUQUERQUE
Queta tells me her mother wants Mom to meet Palmira, la curandera. The old woman is famous all over New Mexico, Queta says, for the cures she works on people. Even she has gone to her to do a plática, which is a conversation, and can be compared to a therapy session. La plática centers in on patients' needs, physical, mental, and spiritual. A curandera never heals without taking into account the whole person.

“We had Doña Carolina in El Cielito. She was our curandera,” I tell Queta, “and I knew an old man who claimed he was a tlachisqui, a seer, like a wise man of the Aztec nation. Jesse and I used to visit him over by El Río Salado. He told us about our history, and all kinds of stories about the ancient world. He had lots of cures, yerbas, teas, you know, like they use in healing. When he looked at you, it seemed he was looking right through you.”

“Palmira could be his twin.”

“That mystical?”

“Yeah. Spooky sometimes, if you ask me.”

One hour before we set out for Colorado Springs, Palmira, la curandera, shows up. I notice people don't call her Doña Palmira, just Palmira, as if she's some kind of goddess. This is a special visit, Doña Hermina explains, because Palmira never goes to anyone's house. People come to her, and many do, hundreds every year.

Palmira walks in, and she reminds me somehow of the reeds that grew along the banks of El Río Salado. There is a quality about her that bends this way and that like the movement of the reeds when the wind swept over them, or when El Río Salado overflowed, drowning them for days. There is power in the old lady. She could bend and rise again, drown and come back to life. I'm two heads taller than she and have to stoop to give her a hug. She's wearing a simple dress with tiny black and white half moons all over it, and black shoes with white socks. On her finger, where her wedding band should be, is a ruby-red ring. Around her neck is a chain with a medallion of La Virgen and a gold crucifix. Her white hair is pulled up into a crown of braids piled on top of her head. She reaches out with freckled arms to hold me briefly.

“You've touched the ancient world,” she says to me. “How have you done this?” Palmira's eyes, shiny, black pupils, look deeply into mine, and I don't know what response to give. Once again, she says to me, “What power have you met? Cual poder?”

Finally, I realize what she's asking. “Don Florencío,” I tell her.

“Don Florencío, who?”

“A tlachisqui of the Aztecas.”

“I haven't heard that word since I was a child. Tlachisqui.” She repeats it softly. “Tlachisqui.”

“He gave me a tea to drink, yoloxochitl.”

“Como no, of course, to heal a broken heart. The loss of your brother, no?”

“Yes. And my voice. I couldn't speak. He healed me so I could talk again.”

“Muy bien, very good, always good to regain something lost por un susto. Susto is trauma to the soul. The soul will hide and be unable to grow until it is recovered and the trauma is healed. Voice comes not only from the throat, but from the heart and soul as well.” I want to ask Palmira about the susto my mother suffered when I almost drowned in El Río Salado, but without understanding how, I know the time is not right.

“Teresa, you are named after a great saint. Teresa of Avila. She is my patron saint. My middle name is Teresa. Teresa of Avila, tan poderosa! I rely on her many times to guide me to know God's will, for as you know, all great healing comes from God. We are only instruments.” Palmira is silent for a few seconds. She looks at me intently. “There is still a part of your soul you must bring home. La alma needs to be coaxed sometimes.” Palmira turns to Mom.

“Come with me, Doña Ramirez,” she says, and leads Mom to Doña Hermina's bedroom, where they can speak in private.

Later Mom told me Palmira gave her a limpia. She swept a bunch of fragrant herbs over her body, romero, and ruda, rosemary and rue, while she recited various prayers. Then she passed an egg over her body, to uncover the root of Mom's problem. The egg was cracked into a bowl, and its elements read by Palmira. She told Mom she was suffering from una tristeza grande, a great sadness which came about through susto. Jesse's death cost my mother the loss of the part of her soul that was joined to Jesse—the mother's love that wanted to protect him from all harm. Guilt was the consequence, and great regret, and the song in my mother's heart was snatched away. All this, Palmira read of my mother's life. I marveled that she could be so right. An image of Don Florencío emerged in my mind, arms outstretched, sprinkling sacred cornmeal in the four directions, a gift to the gods, he would say, for sharing such knowledge with mere mortals.

 

• O
THERS ARE TRAVELING
with us now, Yellowhair and his mother Sarah. They're Zuñi Indians from the reservation west of Albuquerque. Chris knows Yellowhair from his days in Vietnam. Yellowhair's brother, Strong Horse, known by his American name, Eddie Bika, was killed in Vietnam in 1970. It's a miracle, Yellowhair's mother says, that her son saw Chris only two days before we arrived in Albuquerque. She claims God answered her prayer, maybe it was even El Santo Niño. That intrepid child again! The Zuñis hold celebrations in honor of the Christ Child, making new shoes for him every year and guarding Him in their homes against members of the tribe who attempt a kidnapping of the Child if given the opportunity. All is done in the spirit of good play.

Of course we'll let Yellowhair and his mother go with us, my mother says. Why not? We have enough money. Manuel doesn't like the idea of renting another van for the Bikas. We'd need another vehicle anyway to make room for Chris. Manuel's angry that Chris has volunteered to drive Mom's van to keep her company the rest of the way. Really it's me he wants to keep company, but Manuel says nothing more about it. He's good at isolating, and I'm good at letting him do it. Priscilla says Manuel can help Paul drive the van they're riding in. There's nothing strong enough to separate me and Chris.