Authors: Rudolfo Anaya
It was then that I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and looked into the eyes of a strange red-haired boy. He spoke English, a foreign tongue.
“First grade,” was all I could answer. He smiled and took my hand, and with him I entered school. The building was cavernous and dark. It had strange, unfamiliar smells and sounds that seemed to gurgle from its belly. There was a big hall and many rooms, and many mothers with children passed in and out of the rooms.
I wished for my mother, but I put away the thought because I knew I was expected to become a man. A radiator snapped with steam and I jumped. The red-haired boy laughed and led me into one of the rooms. This room was brighter than the hall. So it was like this that I entered school.
Miss Maestas was a kind woman. She thanked the boy whose name was Red for bringing me in, then asked my name. I told her I did not speak English.
“¿Cómo te llamas?” she asked.
“Antonio Márez,” I replied. I told her my mother said I should see her, and that my mother sent her regards.
She smiled. “Anthony Márez,” she wrote in a book. I drew closer to look at the letters formed by her pen. “Do you want to learn to write?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Good,” she smiled.
I wanted to ask her immediately about the magic in the letters, but that would be rude and so I was quiet. I was fascinated by the black letters that formed on the paper and made my name. Miss Maestas gave me a crayon and some paper and I sat in the corner and worked at copying my name over and over. She was very busy the rest of the day with the other children that came to the room. Many cried when their mothers left, and one wet his pants. I sat in my corner alone and wrote. By noon I could write my name, and when Miss Maestas discovered that she was very pleased.
She took me to the front of the room and spoke to the other boys and girls. She pointed at me but I did not understand her. Then the other boys and girls laughed and pointed at me. I did not feel so good. Thereafter I kept away from the groups as much as I could and worked alone. I worked hard. I listened to the strange sounds. I learned new names, new words.
At noon we opened our lunches to eat. Miss Maestas left the room and a high school girl came and sat at the desk while we ate. My mother had packed a small jar of hot beans and some good, green chile wrapped in tortillas. When the other children saw my lunch they laughed and pointed again. Even the high school girl laughed. They showed me their sandwiches which were made of bread. Again I did not feel well.
I gathered my lunch and slipped out of the room. The strangeness of the school and the other children made me very sad. I did not understand them. I sneaked around the back of the school building, and standing against the wall I tried to eat. But I couldn’t. A huge lump seemed to form in my throat and tears came to my eyes. I yearned for my mother, and at the same time I understood that she had sent me to this place where I was an outcast. I had tried hard to learn and they had laughed at me; I had opened my lunch to eat and again they had laughed and pointed at me.
The pain and sadness seemed to spread to my soul, and I felt for the first time what the grown-ups call, la tristesa de la vida. I wanted to run away, to hide, to run and never come back, never see anyone again. But I knew that if I did I would shame my family name, that my mother’s dream would crumble. I knew I had to grow up and be a man, but oh it was so very hard.
But no, I was not alone. Down the wall near the corner I saw two other boys who had sneaked out of the room. They were George and Willy. They were big boys; I knew they were from the farms of Delia. We banded together and in our union found strength. We found a few others who were like us, different in language and custom, and a part of our loneliness was gone. When the winter set in we moved into the auditorium and there, although many a meal was eaten in complete silence, we felt we belonged. We struggled against the feeling of loneliness that gnawed at our souls and we overcame it; that feeling I never shared again with anyone, not even with Horse and Bones, or the Kid and Samuel, or Cico or Jasón.
F
inally the war was over. At school the teachers gathered in the hall and talked excitedly, and some hugged each other. Our Miss Maestas came in and told us the war was over, and she was happy, but the little kids just went on writing the magic letters in their tablets. From my corner I smiled. My three brothers would be coming home, and I yearned for them.
Andrew wrote. They were coming from the lands of the east to meet in a place called San Diego. They wanted to come home together; they had gone to war together.
“¡Jesús, María Purísima!” my mother cried. “Blessed Virgen de Guadalupe, thank you for your intercession! Blessed St. Anthony, holy San Martín, ay Dios mío, gracias a San Cristóbal!” She thanked every saint she knew for her sons’ safe delivery from war. She read the letter over and over and cried on it. When my father came home he had to pry the letter from her hand. By then it was falling apart with her tears, and the magic letters were stained and faded.
“We must pray,” she beamed with joy although her eyes were red with crying. She lit many candles for the Virgin and she allowed Ultima to burn sweet incense at the foot of the Virgin’s statue. Then we prayed. We prayed rosary after rosary, until the monotonous sound of prayers blended into the blur of flickering altar candles.
We prayed until our faith passed into an exhaustion that numbed us to sleep. The first to fall asleep was Theresa, and my father quietly got up and took her to bed. Then Deborah nodded and toppled. And I, who wanted to endure to please my mother, was next. I felt my father’s strong arms carrying me out, and my last glimpse was that of my mother and Ultima kneeling obediently at the foot of the Virgin, praying their thanks.
I do not know how long they prayed. I only know that my soul floated with the holiness of prayer into the sky of dreams. The mist swirled around me. I was at the river, and I heard someone calling my name.
Antonioooooo, the voice called, Tony, Tonieeeeeeee…
Oh, my Antonio, the sound echoed down the valley.
Here! I replied. I peered into the dark mist but I could see no one. I only heard the lapping of the muddy waters of the river.
Antonio-foroooooooous, the voice teased, like my brothers used to tease me.
Here! I called. Here by the catfish hole where you taught me to fish. Here by the tall reeds where the blood of Lupito washes into the river. The thick mist swirled in gray eddies and curled about the trees. They looked like giant, spectral figures.
Toni-roooooo… Toni-reel-oooooo, the voices called. Oh, our sweet baby, we are coming home to you. We who had been beyond the land of our father’s dream; we who have been beyond the ocean where the sun sets; we who have traveled west until we were in the east, we are coming home to you.
Me! My lost brothers.
Give us your hand, our sweet brother. Give us your saving hand.
We are the giants who are dying…
We have seen the land of the golden carp…
Then there was a loud crashing of branches behind me and I turned and saw the three dark figures looming over me.
“Aghhhhhhhh! My brothers!” I screamed.
I bolted up and found myself in bed. My body was wet with sweat, and my lips were trembling. I felt a heavy sorrow gagging my heart, and it was hard to breathe. Outside I heard the owl cry in alarm. Someone was coming up the goat path. I jumped into my pants and raced out into the cold night.
There! Just coming over the slope of the hill were three dark figures.
“Andrew! León! Eugene!” I cried and ran barefeet up the moonlit path.
“Hey, Tony!” they shouted and raced towards me, and in one sweep I was gathered into the arms of the giants of my dreams.
“Hey, Tony, how are you?” “Man, you’re big!” “Hey, you in school? How’s mamá?” Then with me on Andrew’s shoulders they raced towards the house where there was already a light shining in the kitchen windows.
“¡Mis hijos!” my mother shouted and ran to embrace them. It was a wild, exciting reunion. My mother called their names over and over and ran from one to the other, holding him and kissing him. My father shook their hands and gave each one the abrazo. They had to kneel for Ultima’s blessing of safe return. Each one took turns picking up Deborah, Theresa or me and dancing around the kitchen floor with us. They brought us gifts.
My father opened a bottle of whiskey and they all drank as men, and my mother and Ultima set about to making dinner. I had never experienced such happiness as the homecoming of my brothers.
Then in the middle of her cooking my mother sat and cried, and we all stood by quietly. She cried for a long time, and no one, not even Ultima, made a move to touch her. Her body heaved with choking sobs. She needed to cry. We waited.
“Thank God for your safe delivery,” she said and stood up. “Now we must pray.”
“María,” my father complained, “but we have prayed all night!”
Nevertheless we had to kneel for one more prayer. Then she went back to preparing food and we knew she was happy, and everyone sat for the first time and there was quiet.
“Tell me about California!” my father begged.
“We were only there a few months,” Andrew said shyly.
“Tell me about the war.”
“It was all right,” León shrugged.
“Like hell,” Gene scowled. He pulled away from us and sat by himself. My mother said he was like that, a loner, a man who did not like to show his feelings. We all understood that.
“Eugene, shame, in front of Ultima,” my mother said.
“Perdón,” Gene muttered.
“Did you see the vineyards?” my father asked. The whiskey made his face red. He was excited and eager now that his sons had returned. The dream of moving west was revived.
“Ay Dios, it was so hard without you,” my mother said from the table.
“It will be all right now,” Andrew reassured her. I remembered she said he was the one most like her.
“I would give anything to move to California right now!” my father exclaimed and banged his fist on the table. His eyes were wild with joy as he searched the eyes of his sons.
“Gabriel! They have just returned—” my mother said.
“Well,” my father shrugged, “I don’t mean tonight, maybe in a month or two, right boys?” My brothers glanced nervously at each other and nodded.
“¡León! Oh my León!” my mother cried unexpectedly and went to León and held him. León simply looked up at her with his sad eyes. “Oh, you are so thin!”
We got used to her unexpected outbursts. We ate and listened while my father and mother asked a hundred questions. Then fatigue and its brother sleep came for us, and we stumbled off to warm beds while in the kitchen the questioning of the sons who had returned continued into the early morning.
My three brothers were back and our household was complete. My mother cared for them like a mother hen cares for her chicks, even though the hawk of war has flown away. My father was happy and full of life, regenerated by talk of the coming summer and moving to California. And I was busy at school, driven by the desire to make mine the magic of letters and numbers. I struggled and stumbled, but with the help of Miss Maestas I began to unravel the mystery of the letters.
Miss Maestas sent a note to my mother telling her that I was progressing very well, and my mother was happy that a man of learning was once again to be delivered to the Lunas.
T
he lime-green of spring came one night and touched the river trees. Dark buds appeared on branches, and it seemed that the same sleeping sap that fed them began to churn through my brothers. I sensed their restlessness, and I began to understand why the blood of spring is called
the bad blood.
It was bad not because it brought growth, that was good, but because it raised from dark interiors the restless, wild urges that lay sleeping all winter. It revealed hidden desires to the light of the new warm sun.
My brothers had spent the winter sleeping during the day and in town at night. They were like turgid animals who did things mechanically. I saw them only in the evening when they rose to clean up and eat. Then they were gone. I heard in whispers that they were wasting their service money in the back room of the Eight Ball Pool Hall. My mother worried about them almost as much as she had when they were at war, but she said nothing. As long as they were back she was happy.
My father increased his pleas that they plan a future with him in California, but they only nodded. They did not hear their father. They were like lost men who went and came and said nothing.
I thought that perhaps it was their way of forgetting the war, because we knew the war-sickness was in them. León had shown the sickness most. Sometimes at night he howled and cried like a wild animal…
And I remembered Lupito at the river…
Then my mother had to go to him and hold him like a baby until he could sleep again. It wasn’t until he began to have long talks with Ultima and she gave him a remedy that he got better. His eyes were still sad, as they had always been, but there was a gleam of hope for the future in them and he could rest nights. So I thought perhaps they were all sick with the war and trying to forget it.
But with spring they became more restless. The money they had mustered out with was gone, and they had signed notes in town and gotten into trouble. It made my mother sad, and it slowly killed my father’s dream. One warm afternoon while I fed the rabbits they talked, and I listened.
“We have to get the hell out’a here,” Eugene said nervously, “this hick town is killing me!” Although he was the youngest he had always been the leader.
“Yeah. It’s hell to have seen half the world then come back to this,” León nodded across the river to the small town of Guadalupe. He always took his cues from Gene even though he was the oldest of the three.
“It’s that Márez blood itching,” Andrew laughed. Andrew listened to them, but he would not necessarily be led by Gene. Andrew liked to be his own man.