The Chicano/Latino Literary Prize (8 page)

“Are you satisfied?” Tiburcio asked.

Everyone was silent. David was certainly the best looking young man they had ever seen, at least naked as he now lay. No one seemed to have the slightest shame before this perfect shape of a man. It was as if a statue had been placed among them, and they stared freely at whatever they admired most. Some of the men envied the wide chest, the angular jaw and the hair, thick and wavy. The women for the most part gazed at the full, parted lips, the sunbaked arms, the long, strong legs and of course the dark, soft mound with its finger of life flopped over, its head to the sky.

“Too bad about the missing toe,” Tiburcio said. “And the tick, what about that?” Mrs. Rentería struck a match and held it close to the whitish sac until the insect withdrew. There were ‘oos' and ‘ahhs,' and the girl who had combed the dead man's hair began to cry. Carmela glanced at the levee and wondered what was keeping her uncle, Fausto.

They all agreed it was death by drowning. That the river was dry occurred only to the children, but they remained quiet, listening to their parents continue about what should be done with the dead man. Smaldino volunteered his ice locker. No, the women complained, David would lose his suppleness, the smooth, lifelike skin would turn blue and harden. Then someone suggested they call Cuca, perhaps she knew how to preserve the dead. Cuca had cures for everything. Why not David?

“No!” Mrs. Rentería shouted, unable to control herself any longer. “He'll stay with me.” Although she had never married, never been loved by a man, everyone called her “Mrs.” out of respect, at times even knowing the bite of irony could be felt in this small, squarish woman who surrounded her house with flowers and worked six days a week changing bedpans and sheets at County General. “David is mine!” she shouted for all to hear.

“David?” Tiburcio asked. “Since when is his name David? He looks to me more like a …,” Tiburcio glanced at the man's face, “… a Luis.”

“No, señor!” another voice cried, “Roberto.”

“Antonio!”

“Henry.”

“¿Qué Henry? ¡Enrique!”

“Alejandro!”

Trini, Ronnie, Miguel, Roy, Rafael … the call of names grew, everyone argued their choice.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Rentería left her neighbors, who one by one turned away to debate the issue. After kneeling a moment beside David, she stood and wrung out the sopping, gray shorts, then began slipping his feet through the leg holes, eventually tugging the elastic band past the knees to the thighs. Here she asked for help, but the group didn't seem to hear. So with a determination grown strong by years of spinsterhood, she rolled David onto one side, then the other, at last working the shorts up to his waist. The rest was the same, and she finished dressing him by herself.

When the others returned no one noticed the change, for David appeared as breathtaking dressed as he did naked. “You're right,” Tiburcio announced, “his name is David … but you still can't have him.”

About this time Fausto arrived, helped by Mario, a goateed boy whose weaknesses were stealing cars and befriending old men. The two figures stepped slowly across the broken glass and rocks. Fausto, winking at his niece, immediately grasped the situation. David was a wetback. Yes, there was no mistake. Hadn't he, years ago, brought at least a dozen young men from Tijuana, one, sometimes two at a time, cramped into the trunk of the car? Of course Fausto knew, for even after they found work months later, they would return to the house dressed in new clothes but always the same type of clothes. Fausto wasn't too quick to recognize women illegals, but the men, like young David there, were an easy mark.

“How can you tell?” Smaldino asked.

The old man raised his staff and pointed to the gold tooth, the cut of hair, the collar tag, the narrow trouser cuffs, the thick heeled, pointy shoes. “It's all there. You think I don't know a mojado when I see one?” As a last gesture, he stooped down and closed the dead man's eyes. “Now … what will you do with him?”

“No, hijita, he's too old for you.”

Mrs. Rentería repeated her claim, placing her body between David and the others. Before they could object, Fausto asked in a loud voice what woman among them needed a man so greatly that she would accept a dead man. “Speak up! Which of you can give this man your entire love, the soul of everything you are? Which of you, if not the señora here who has no one?”

The wives looked at their husbands, and the girls and unmarried women waited in awkward silence.

“Then it's settled,” Fausto said with unusual authority. “You, Tiburcio … Smaldino, and you, Mario, take this man to her house.”

“Hey, I ain't touchin' no dead man,” Mario said.

Carmela stepped forward. “Yeah, you'll steal cars, but you won't help your own kind.”

“Alright, alright,” Mario muttered, “one time and no more.”

That evening so many visitors crowded into the small, frame house next to the river that late-comers were forced to wait their turn in the front yard. Even Cuca, her stockings rolled down to her ankles, had to wait in line.

Mrs. Rentería had bathed and shaved David, clipped his hair and lightly powdered his cheeks. He wore new clothes and sat quietly in a waxed and polished leather recliner. The neighbors filed by, each shaking the manicured hand, each with a word of greeting, some of the men with a joking remark about the first night with a woman. And most everyone returned for a second, third and fourth look at this treasure of manhood who might not survive another day of summer heat.

Like all discoveries, it was only a matter of time till David's usefulness for giving pleasure would end, till the colognes and sprays would not mask what was real, till the curious would remain outside, preferring to watch through the window with their noses covered, till the women retreated into the yard, till the men stopped driving by for a glance from the street, till at last only Mrs. Rentería was left to witness the end.

Happily this was a solitary business. For several days she had not gone to the hospital, her work was forgotten, and she passed the daylight hours at David's feet, listening, speaking, giving up her secrets. And not once did he notice her wrinkled, splotchy hands, the graying hair nor the plain, uninspired face. During the warm afternoons David would take her out, arm in arm, strolling idly through the lush gardens of his home, somewhere far away to the south. He gave her candies and flowers, kissed her hands and spoke of eternity, the endless pulse of time, two leaves in the wind. At night she would come to him dressed as some exotic vision, a sprig of jasmine in her hair, and lay by his side till dawn, awake to his every whisper and touch.

On the third day, Fausto knew the honeymoon was over. “Señora,” he called at the door, “it is time David left.”

Mrs. Rentería hurried out from the kitchen. Her hair was down in a carefree tangle and wore only a bathrobe. “You're too late,” she said with a smile. “He died this morning… about an hour ago.”

Fausto examined her eyes, quite dry and obviously sparkling with something more than grief.

“He died?”

“Yes,” she stated proudly. “I think it was too much love.”

The odor of death was so strong Fausto had to back down the steps. “Señora, I'd be more than happy to take him away for you. Leave it to me, I'll be right back.” He turned quickly and shuffled toward the sidewalk.

“Wait!” she shouted. “David's already gone.”

“I know, but I'll take him away.”

“That's what I mean. The boy, that greñudo friend of yours, carried him off, just before you came.”

“Mario?”

“I think so … he's got pelitos on his chin?”

“Está bien, Señora, your David will get the best burial possible.”

Mrs. Rentería said she insisted on going with him, but Mario refused.

“Don't worry,” Fausto said, “we'll take care of him. The body goes, but the soul …”

“I know, his soul is right here … in my heart.”

“Señora, keep him there, because if you ever lose him, watch out for the other women.”

“He'll never leave. You'll see, I have his word.” She pulled a folded scrap of paper from between her breasts and studied the scribbled words.

Fausto asked if he should say something special at the burial. “Some prayer… a poem?”

Mrs. Rentería answered with a toss of her head, and for a moment the glassy eyes were lost in the distance. Then she closed the heavy wooden door, clicked both locks, dropped the blinds behind the big bay window and drew them shut.

But David was not buried. He left the valley as fresh and appealing as he had arrived. A man so perfect should not be buried, Fausto told Mario, and with the boy's help and using a skill more ancient than the first Tarahumara Indian, the old man painstakingly restored David to his former self. Even the missing toe was replaced.

By late evening the restoration was complete. Only one chore remained. Carmela brought the pitcher of water into the yard and wet the dead man's clothes, the same shabby clothes he wore when he arrived.

“More water,” Fausto said. Mario took the pitcher and skipped into the house. David was about his own age, and ever since Mrs. Rentería had taken him home, Mario's admiration for the dead man's quiet sense of confidence had grown. The vato is cool, Mario thought.

After the second pitcher of water was poured, Fausto asked for the egg—a dried quetzal egg Mario had plucked from the Exposition Park Ornithology Hall.

“What's that for?” Carmela asked.

“Oh, Cuca once told me that you do this”—and here Fausto lightly brushed the egg on the dead man's lips—“and it brings him good luck. I don't believe it … but just in case …”

Mario struggled with the body, lifting it over one shoulder. “Is that it?”

“Follow me,” Fausto said.

Carmela opened the picket-fence gate and silently watched the two silhouettes walk into the darkness. “Tío!” she called. “Where you taking him?”

“Further down the river,” came the faint reply, “… where others can find him.”

Mario, Fausto and David—once again the best-looking dead man this side of Mexico—crossed the street and disappeared under the broken street lamp.

Rosaura Sánchez

Second Prize: Short Story

Era un excusado de madera, medía unos 6 pies y medio de alto. El sol y la lluvia habían dejado aquella madera descolorida, casi ploma. Había tres retretes de madera, dos para adultos y uno pequeño para niños. El excusado quedaba retirado de la casa, allá cerca del callejón. A veces había papel higiénico pero si no, nunca faltaban los pedazos de periódico ensartados en un alambre al lado de la puerta. Por dentro se trancaba la puerta con una aldaba y por fuera había una tranca. La puerta tenía varias hendiduras pequeñas que nos permitían sentarnos y observar lo que acontecía en el solar para que nadie pudiera vernos de fuera. Por eso cuando oímos lo de la presa, mi hermano Pepito y yo corrimos al excusado para escondernos y allí nos estuvimos una hora entera, mirando por las hendiduras, esperando que llegara Amá del centro.

La troca del dompe volvió a pasar por la calle Irving. Iban dos gringos en frente y nosotros temblábamos.

“Ya es la segunda vez que pasa”.

“A lo mejor les andan echando el ojo a los de doña Huences ¿Y te fijaste? Es de las trocas que usan allá en la presa para acarrear tierra y piedras”.

“Sí, dice Apá que ya merito acaban”.

“Mira, ahí va otra vez. Es que quieren uno esta misma tarde. Dice Chava que lo ponen en las compuertas”.

“Y, ¿pa' qué será?”

“Pos pa' cuando haya creciente”.

“¿Creciente?”

“Sí, hombre, entonces dicen que se oye el grito. Así le avisa a la gente pa' que tenga chanza de salir. Si no, se ahoga todo el pueblo”.

“Y, ¿tiene que ser mexicano?”

“Pos, dicen”.

De repente vimos a Chava que venía corriendo hacia el excusado.

“Chato, Pepe, ¿'on 'tán?”

Pronto desganchamos la puerta y salimos.

“¿Ya se fueron?”

“Sí, y hace rato que no pasan más. Dicen que por la villita se robaron un recién nacido.”

“¡Jiiijo! ¿Y la mamá no se dio cuenta?”

“Pos no. Dicen que andaba acá la vecina y se metieron los gringos y lo sacaron”.

Al niño lo metieron los gringos en una caja pequeña de madera y ésta la sentaron en el cemento como parte de las compuertas de la represa. Ahora, cada vez que llueve mucho, el agua sube y sube hasta que llega a donde está el cuerpecito del niño. Entonces lanza un llorido agudo y los que viven allá en las afueras de la ciudad, cerca de la presa, salen de sus
country-style homes
a las tierras altas.

Así dicen.

Me suicidé esa noche allí en mi taller. Con mi 22. No me salió exactamente como quería. En vez de desplomarme el corazón, me metí los balazos en el pulmón. Bien pude haberme levantado y salido a la calle para pedir auxilio, nomás de pura rabia por no haberlo hecho como era debido, pero decidí esperar. Estaba acostumbrado a esperar, aunque me disgustaba bastante. Pues sí, por fin había decidido quitarme de tanta espera. Quería ser yo el que decidiera y produjera aquella muerte. Quería estar completamente unido a mi tarea. Pero nada. Tuve que esperar hasta que me llenó el pulmón de sangre. Luego me vino el pataleo, esos espasmos musculares sobre los cuales uno no tiene ningún control. Estaba yo allí otra vez, marginal al asunto. Claro que sin mí todo aquello no hubiera sido. Era yo la materia prima, la mano de obra y el explotador. Enajenado de la obra y a la vez, la obra misma. No tuve que esperar mucho. Me compró luego el gran Consumidor.

Había trapeado pisos en el hotel, cepillado madera en el taller de muebles, lavado ollas y platos en la cocina del hospital y ahora estaba en la carnicería, cortando y empacando carne. Tenía que jugarse muy águila.