The Guardians (24 page)

“Didn't I tell you we were gonna see each other soon?” she called out from three bleachers down, squeezing her sneakers between people. She
came up as fast as she could. Yeah, she had said that the last time we spoke on the phone. I thought it was a prophecy. Maybe it was.

I looked at the three men, el Abuelo Milton, Miguel, and then Gabo. They were so proud of themselves. My sobrino was all smiles. I hadn't seen those dimples for a while. I smiled, too, all that day. I'll admit it. I don't care who knows. Smiled myself silly for once.

REGINA

When it's raining, you pour it. That's what Mamá used to say. And you can do that until you're all the way down to when China comes home. Every day for every dollar. That was another one of her favorite sayings, too, although there were days when we were lucky if we made a dollar. My mother learned to speak English pretty good. Faster than me. Maybe it wasn't perfect but she could sure defend herself. Her first language was Rarámuri. Pero Metatron knocked that out of her.

As soon as we settled down in Cabuche, mi mamá got involved in everything. She belonged to the women's group at the church. She went to bingo there every Friday night with as much devotion as she went to Mass on Sundays. She had her hair-permanent business. When it didn't work for me selling products for the home, she took over my “district,” and really scored. She knew everybody. Half of Cabuche attended her funeral Mass. People couldn't even fit in the church. Up at the pulpit, Father Juan Bosco gave a teary-eyed eulogy.

She always went out. I always stayed home. Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if my mamá had not been so strict with me. For instance, I would have learned to swim, for sure. She thought if I went in the water, I'd drown. Come to think of it, maybe that fear came from when we crossed over through el río one time at night and I almost did. But who knows? Maybe I would have even made it to the Olympics. Or been an ice skater, getting to wear those skimpy outfits with fake fur around the collar and cuffs. Or, after I got my general equivalency diploma and started taking classes at the community college, I would have gone for the degree. Mamá said so much school was a waste of time. We needed to work.

Even though she always told me that it was unattractive for a lady to be chismeando, she herself had a lot of “comadres.” Dropping off someone's rug-cleaner order from Amway for instance, could take her all afternoon. Mamá and her customer would just blab the day away One time I told my mother that. She was mad at me because the frijoles had burned. She was out dropping off an order of pet-stain remover. Beans take a while to cook. She put them on and left. I was out in the garden. When beans burn you practically have to vacate, the smell is so bad. She was angry, all right.

“And what
were you
doing, anyway?” I said. I said it under my breath, figuring she wouldn't hear me. “But puro huirihuiri all day.” Next thing I knew my mamá was in front of me, her hand raised. I stared at her. I was twenty years old. I was too old to be slapped no more. She saw all that in my look. She put her hand down and walked away. After that, she was the one who always watched the beans. Mi mamá still made me do the rest of the housework. But at least I can say one battle with her was won.

I don't want to stymie my sobrino that way.
Stymie
is one of those words that sounds just like what it means. Not let him dream because I want him around to do my bidding, because I'm afraid to be left alone, because I resent so much how my own life turned out. I'm talking about my mother, not me. I don't blame anyone about my life being stymied.

After los aguaceros or monsoon, like the news called it, the garden buried in mud, the road washed out, us stuck in the house, roof leaking, pots and Tupperware everywhere, all I could ask myself was, “Where are the locusts?” Then I got my answer. The locusts came in the form of a rumor. No sooner had the new school year got under way, Mrs. Martínez told me what she was hearing through the grapevine in the office. Our jobs, and those of most of the staff, might be cut at the end of the school year.

School had started off like always, with a lot of work for everybody. I stayed more than my share of hours the first weeks, helping the teachers get their tasks done. I not only set up classrooms and straightened them out afterward, a lot of times teachers asked me to grade homework for them. I didn't think I was supposed to do that but I did. I didn't get paid for staying after school, neither, but if I didn't, I'd surely be replaced in the flash of an eye.

In the
blink
of an eye.

That's why I can be replaced so easily. It don't take a genius to do my
job. There are some aides at the school who, because they work so hard, think they are irreplaceable. I am not one of them. “The school board is always at it about how they can improve the education of our kids,” Miguel said when I told him what Mrs. Martínez was saying, “and the first thing they come up with is cutting budgets.”

Gabo had started his senior year. He was still working at el Shur Sav. But he didn't let me see his schoolwork no more. He didn't even like me to ask about it. The year before he'd always come home and show me his grades. He was an honor student. Now he didn't even mention his classes. So it wasn't exactly una sorpresa when I got a call from his principal to come down for a meeting.

Dr. Patel was young for being the head of the high school, I thought. She must've been studying her whole life without stopping. “Chandra,” she told me. “Please call me Chandra.” Dr. Chandra was dressed in a suit that made her look like a dark Jackie Kennedy. She was wearing pearls. “You're not from around here, are you?” I asked.

I had worn my Sears dress for the occasion. It was the first time I'd had the chance. Since I purchased it, it had gotten too big on me. Cutting back on my meals had paid off over the summer, I thought that morning when I put it on and started looking for a belt that might help pull it in. Paid off for what? that nagging little voice I carry around in my cabeza-head for no good reason asked.

Dr. Chandra smiled and shook her head. “Let's talk about your nephew, shall we?” I smiled, too, and crossed my legs at the ankles just like she was doing. (This is how you learn things, by watching, I reminded myself.) She folded her hands on her lap and I did, too. Then she reached over to her desk and picked up a pen, which she started poking against a notepad. My hands went up for a moment and then I settled them down on my lap again.

“Señora …” she said.

“Regina, please,” I interrupted.

“Yes, okay,” the principal said, groping for a way to begin our discussion about my nephew. She swallowed and adjusted her glasses. It looked like she was putting on her principal's face. Her jaw became firm. “Gabriel is a very bright young man,” she said.

Yes, he is, I thought.

“He scored among the highest in his class last year. He had, in fact, every chance to be valedictorian …”

“But … ?” I said.

“I am aware of Gabriel's personal situation—about his parents, I mean,” she said. “Last year I made him see our counselor here. Did you know that?”

I didn't. Gabo used to be a better listener than a talker and now he wasn't neither. Even when he came in at night from work and I sat down with him to eat a quesadilla or sandwich, he'd eat in silence.

“I don't know,” Dr. Chandra said. “He's lost a lot of interest in his studies. I'm worried as to how he is going to do this year.”

I didn't know what to say. My heart was sinking down to my stomach. My hands were not politely folded on my lap no more but holding my panza. It felt like it'd been hit.

“He proselytizes all the time … did you know that? Is your family very religious? I mean this is a public school …” The principal waved both hands in the air, and the pen in her hand made her look like she was trying to conduct some faraway music. “I mean …”

“You mean what, Dr. Chandra?” I asked. My voice came out so small I hardly heard it myself. Was she going to kick Gabo out of school?

“Well, while there isn't exactly an official code prohibiting it, we are getting pressured to keep religion out of school business—any religion,” she said, “and that peculiar tunic he's wearing every day is simply disruptive for our other students.”

“I don't understand,” I said.

“We're not going to suspend him or anything like that. But as one parent to another,” she said, “I am very concerned about Gabriel. I mean, why is your nephew going around in a robe? He looks like a Capuchin monk,” the principal said, all niceness suddenly vanishing from her original quinceañera manner. Now her eyes were searching mine with reproach. All mine could do in return was keep wincing like they were being attacked.

She went on. “Half the time he refuses to wear anything on his feet … and when he does it's those sandals… . He can't participate in gym class in those. He used to be athletic. We don't want to suspend him. Gabriel was one of our best students, over all, in fact. But I mean, my goodness. What … in … the … world … is going on?”

“I don't know, Dr. Chandra,” I said, mostly because I didn't. “Gabo just came into this life that way.”

GABO

Padre Santo Pío, Amigo de Jesús, the Holy Spirit, all the Angeles, and above all, Our Lord,

I am failing and yet my Lord does not forget me.

I fail to express my most ardent love to my Father in Heaven. I fail to show my infinite gratitude. I am at the bottom of the sea. What sea, Santo querido? The sea of eternal sorrows. And yet, my Lord has bestowed the grace which I have yearned for for so long. I know now what you were trying to teach me for so long about sharing the suffering of Our Lord on the Cross. I beseech you to kindly let Him know. I pray for nothing more than to accomplish that mystery.

Yet, I know how I am unworthy, Padre Pío, more than ever. I steal and I lie. People think I am un loco. If only that were the truth.

It started after el cura, my mentor, left without saying a word. I know that it is no excuse for my behavior but the only way I could fit his desertion into my head, Santo, was by telling myself that Padre Juan Bosco was not the Church. Like my tía Regina tried to tell me ever since I had run away to stay at his house, priests were men, capable of making mistakes. “Maybe even more than most,” she said, “because they got so many rules imposed on them.” As you know, Padre Pío, I do not want to be a priest. My greatest desire is to be un descalzado devoted to silence. (But Su Reverencia, if you permit me, I will always write to you. Although I worry I bother you too much writing to you as much as I do.)

The first time I went into la iglesia it was just to pray

The priest had always said it was okay for me to do that, Padre Pío. He had given me a set of keys. I could tell that Herlinda Mora was also going there, keeping things up, dusting, cleaning … and waiting, too. One day, I went into the sacristy. I used to prepare everything for el cura as we got ready for Mass. I was filled with such longing. I found some communion wafers in a box. The communion host is only to be for those ready to take Cristo into their hearts. You must be free of all sin, but I had no one to hear my confession. I had stopped going to la santa misa. The only one given on Sunday was by the priest that came from out of town. A lot of people did not attend church anymore. He was not our priest. He did not know us. We did not know him. And who was going to tell his pecados to a stranger?