The Memories of Ana Calderón (20 page)

A few days later, César told me that they had heard from Tavo. Still drunk and not telling anyone, he had enlisted in the Marines. When he wrote to Alejandra to tell her of his whereabouts, he was in training at Camp Pendleton near San Diego. A few weeks later, he was shipped out to fight the Japanese in the South Pacific.

When I heard this, I became more nervous and agitated than ever. I hardly slept at nights and I found it hard to eat. Tavo's face was engraved inside of me so that every time I closed my eyes I saw him. Sometimes, trying to get relief, I took Ismael in my arms, hoping to fall asleep, but it was impossible. It wasn't until one night when I held my son close that a feeling buried deep inside of me floated out. I recognized it. I was wishing with all the strength of my soul that Tavo would be killed over there, so that he would never return. Despite the shame I felt because of that longing, I was finally able to sleep.

Shortly after midnight on a sweltering Saturday in June, 1943, the phone rang in the Bast house. Franklin, still in his undershorts, answered. When he knocked at Ana's door she was already in her robe and heading out to the kitchen.

“It's for you.”

She couldn't explain the feeling of fear that gripped her; she picked up the phone, nonetheless. There was silence at the other end of the line even after she had spoken into the receiver several times.

Finally, a voice stuttered, “Ana, it's me…”

It was Alejandra's voice, shaky, filled with tears. Ana's first thought was that Octavio had been killed. She braced herself.

“¿Qué pasa
, Alejandra? Where are you calling from?”

“He's dying…beaten…he's calling for you…”

Her mind reeled trying to focus in on what her sister was saying. Her thoughts scrambled in different directions, unable to grasp whom her sister was talking about. She had expected to be told of a death in battle, on a ship, or in a plane crash.

“Who, Alejandra? Who's hurt? Is it 'Apá?”

“No! It's César! Some of his friends brought him in, and I think he's dying. He's over at the house…I'm calling you from the liquor store.”

“How? What happened?… Alejandra, I can't understand what you're saying! Stop crying, and talk to me!”

Her sister's words were garbled by hysteria, and they were incomprehensible. Ana could hear her other sisters wailing in the background; she also heard male voices jabbering loudly. Trying to piece things together, she concluded that they must have run across the street to the only phone available. “Alejandra, did you leave César alone? Pass the phone over to somebody else. Do it, right now! Do you hear me?”

After a pause of a few seconds, the voice of a young man came on the line. “Ana, it's me, Memo Estrada.”

“Memo, what happened? Tell me slowly so I can understand you.”

“We were out on the street…”

“Who, Memo?'

“Just a few of us guys. It was Oscar, Carlos, your brother and me. We weren't doing nothing, I swear! We had just come out of the dance hall, when some
gabacho
sailors started beating us up, then some guys from the other side of town got into it. It was a mess! I couldn't tell who was beating who…”

Ana's blood rushed to her head. It pounded with such force that for a second her hearing was blocked and she was
having difficulty catching the words coming to her over the thin black wire she was twisting in her left hand. The earlier part of the evening flashed through her mind.

César had come to visit. He had come with his friend Memo who had driven in a car borrowed from his uncle. At first glance, Ana had a difficult time recognizing her brother because he was dressed in a zoot-suit he was wearing for the first time. She had never seen him dressed that way. Not knowing what to say, she invited both young men to come into the kitchen. Franklin and Amy were speechless at seeing César looking like a grown man. He obviously had come for their benefit, so that they could take in the outfit of which he seemed so proud.

César's zoot-suit was sharp, Ana admitted to herself. It was tailor-made of pin-striped sharkskin fabric, bottle green in color, and its wide shoulder pads accentuated the boy's already broad back. The coat hung gracefully nearly to his knees, and the slacks draped to a narrow fit around his ankles. César's shoes were of cordovan leather; they gleamed in the defused light of the kitchen. His hat, which he had deliberately left on, because without it the get-up was incomplete, was light green, and its wide brim was turned up slightly on the left side, giving César a cocky, daring look.

“Esa, carnala
. How do you like my
tacuche
?”

César's improvised sing-song accent left Ana speechless for a few seconds. Recuperating, she said, “It looks pretty good, César, but I think that you're too young to be dressed like that. And what's with this jive talk? Has 'Apá seen you dressed up like this, and talking like a
pachuco
?”

“Nah. The
jefito
would have a heart attack if he saw me. I keep my threads over at Memo's. Right,
ese vato loco
?”

Ana was having difficulty dealing with the change in her brother's looks and his manner of speaking. She had noticed words creeping into his language before, but never so marked. She realized, however, that he had come over to impress her, and that he felt good about his new style but, she told herself, he was too young.

“Where are you boys going tonight, all dressed up this way? I hope not out on the streets.” Franklin had stepped over to stand in front of the two young men, and when he saw them make a face, he reminded them, “Haven't you heard what happened the other night? Some marines put a couple
of the guys from your neighborhood right in the hospital.” He was referring to the attack that occurred in the center of town a few days earlier.

“Nah, Mr. Bast. That won't happen to us. We're just going to push some trucks around tonight, that's all.”

Memo, also in a zoot-suit, giggled loudly at what César had said.

Amy sucked her teeth in irritation because she didn't get the joke, but Franklin turned to her, “It's an expression that means they're going dancing.”

Ana took César by the arm and led him out to the front porch. Memo followed. When she looked back, she saw Franklin and Amy return to their bedroom, shaking their heads in disapproval. She patted her brother on the shoulder to let him know that she thought he was handsome in his suit, and she tried to smile.

“You look real good,
hermanito
, and I'm glad you came to show me your new outfit, but I think that you and Memo should go back home and stay there. It's Saturday night, and you don't know what's going on out there.”

“Are you kidding, Ana? Tonight's a big night. The chicks are just waiting for us. Right,
ese vato
?”

Ana didn't let Memo answer. “César, cut it out. You're only thirteen years old! I don't care how grown up you look dressed this way! You're still too young to be messing around with girls. Now, do as I say, and go straight home!” Turning to the other boy, Ana blurted out, “Memo, how old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“I think that even you are too young. Come on. Be good and go home. César, Amy and I will be out in the barrio on Monday around eleven o'clock. I want you to come with me. In fact, now that school's out, I want you to come with us everyday.”

Crestfallen because he had not received the praise he had expected from his sister and because she had spoken to him as if he were a little boy, César hung his head, nodding despondently. He turned to his friend and jerked his head toward the car.

This had happened a few hours earlier and Ana now spoke into the telephone as the pounding in her head subsided. “Memo, how badly is he hurt? You didn't leave him alone, did you?”

“Nah, the old man stayed with him. Ana, I think your brother is in real bad shape, but your
jefito
doesn't want us to take him to the hospital. He says that César will be all right by himself.”

“I'm coming over.”

Ana hooked the receiver onto the goose-necked telephone. When she looked up, she saw that Franklin was dressed and that the keys to the pick-up were dangling from his hand. “Amy will stay with Ismael. I'll do the driving.”

She darted into her room without saying a word. She came out dressed in gray slacks and a black cotton blouse. She had on the high top shoes she usually wore around the ranch. Amy stood by the sink, an anxious look flickering in her blue eyes. “You two be careful. I'll have breakfast when you return.”

Franklin and Ana traveled in silence westbound on Whittier Boulevard toward the barrio. It was past one in the morning, so they hardly encountered any cars. When the headlights of their truck flashed on the sign indicating Humphrys Avenue, Franklin turned right, stopped on the dirt shoulder and turned off the motor. “I'll wait for you here, Ana. Take your time, but call me if I can be of help.”

She patted his right forearm and jumped out of the truck; her feet created a transparent puff of dust. Without looking to either side, she approached the house to which she had not returned since the day her father had beaten and chased her away. All the lights were on. She took a few seconds to take a deep breath of night air. She was scared; she knew that she had been forbidden to return by her father, but her desire to see César overpowered her fear. She walked up the three steps onto the wooden porch and she rapped on the frame of the screen.

Rosalva opened the door. “Ana!” Her voice was loud, shrill and it made the other voices stop in mid-sentence. A deep, threatening silence followed. It seemed to Ana that everyone inside had suddenly vanished and that if she entered, she would find an empty room. She was trying to gather her thoughts as to what to do next, when the screen door suddenly slammed painfully against her forehead. Momentarily stunned, Ana swerved backward as she tried to regain her balance.

“You here! Haven't I prohibited it?”

Rodolfo Calderón had rammed the door against her with all the force of his arms, but as she backed away, her eyes made out his face in the darkness of the porch. She saw that it was filled with fury and rage. He had not changed; hatred for her still dominated him.

“'Apá, let me see César!
¡Por favor!
For the love of 'Amá!” Her voice didn't betray her fear; it was strong and steady. She opened the door and stepped inside.

“
¡Lárgate de aquí!
”

As he commanded her to go away, his large hand lashed out, landing squarely on Ana's nose. Blood gushed out of both nostrils; in the gloom, it glittered like black liquid. She jerked her hands to her face, elbows up in defense against other blows. She had backed out the door and off the porch. She stood her ground, feet spread wide apart on the weedy dirt.

“'Apá, please!…”

Rodolfo jumped off the porch, by-passing the steps. Ana saw this and retreated toward the street, moving backward while not turning her back to her father, who was charging straight ahead in pursuit of her. She stumbled, then fell. She saw him coming toward her, his face distorted with wrath.

Ana began to writhe on the ground blindly, anxiously groping for something with which to defend herself. Her fingers finally landed on a rock, and even though it was large, she was able to cup it in her right hand. As her father loomed directly above her, Ana sprang to her feet and lunged toward him. She raised her arm and brought it down with all the force in her body. She felt it crash on his forehead. He reeled and fell on his haunches.

Franklin had run up to help Ana and was now by her side. He held her, trying to lead the way out to the car, but by now Rodolfo, though stunned and swaying, had gotten back to his feet. He was hysterical. He rolled his eyes from side to side, their whites gleaming menacingly in the dark. He held a hand to his bloodied face, and with the other he gestured violently towards Ana.

“You cursed whore. For raising your hand to your father, I curse you and your children again. Now get out of here!”

As Franklin led Ana through the front wire gate, she closed her eyes and cupped her hands over her ears, trying to drown out her father's words that again cursed her and her son, this time because she had raised her hand in anger
against him.