Roberto looked at him with an anguished look in his eyes; his face was so deformed and wrinkled, his hair was white, and his threadbare clothes were hanging on his small frame. It took a couple of minutes before anything registered with him, but finally, he smiled and tenderly touched Don Federico's hand as a sign of the bond between them.
With a lump in his throat, Don Federico spent close to an hour with Roberto, reassuring him of his welcome to stay. Later, as a gamut of emotions surfaced, he showed up red-eyed, and informed the others, "We'll get rid of Hanson's body. The truck will be destroyed and taken apart, piece-by-piece. We'll hear no more about this. And no more will be spoken of this incident. Mañana will come, for there will be many more mañanas."
It was never revealed how the body of the ex-Texas Ranger Hanson was disposed of. The knowledge was surrendered to the vaqueros' code of silence and was never repeated again. Each vaquero carried it to his grave.
*****
A balmy wind awoke the old man from his sleeping trance. Fred looked around the park in a half-dazed stare and glanced at his watch. It was getting dark as the reddish- orange sun slanted to the west over the tops of the trees. He noticed the small black dog had cuddled on the ground next to his feet. His memory was starting to fail, but like a shot of oxygen to his half-conscious thoughts, he began questioning where his children were.
His mind was muddled and disoriented by age and forgetfulness, and he was having trouble remembering the ugly, painful ghosts of happenings in the past, so many years back.
He recalled returning to Tampico-Alto to get Dolores. She was pregnant again and, having no other choice, Fred stayed until the baby was born. It was another girl, christened Francisca, in honor of his mother. Two years after Fred and his two daughters had come to the United States without her, Dolores got her visa, and the family was able to be together in Texas.
Don Federico Juelson died from heart failure in 1945, shortly after Fred brought Dolores to Texas.
Fred remembered how he had felt cheated, and his mind had snapped from depression, not being able to continue as a physician in Texas because of racially biased people, even though he had been declared innocent of any crime. He wondered if a curse had been put on him for having married Dolores. Victoria had always disapproved of his marrying her and seemed repulsed by their children, mistreating them when they were in her care. It had been more painful for little Ana, mistreating her more than Maria Venus who was shy, silent and afraid.
Fred knew he was never the same after coming back to the United States, and he always blamed the cruelty of the bigoted people who had accused him of the crime he didn't commit, ruining his career and his life. He always felt that his ‘roots of indifference’ were the basis of everything that had happened—greed for money and power—culture and traditions. He always resented, the sense of entrapment that dwelled within him.
In Texas, he was a branded man; in Mexico, he was a healer, and to the local natives there—he was their hero. Going back became a loud siren call, with an urgency to become useful again. It was true what the people of the village of Tampico-Alto said about their water: if you drink it, you will come back.
He regretted that, after many years of being disillusioned with their marriage, Dolores became discontented with his unpredictable ways and impetuous behavior, and with Victoria always interfering and finding ways of hurting her and her children. In the end, she had filed for divorce, but stayed in Texas and raised their seven children.
Brokenhearted from his father's death and his failed marriage, and with nowhere else to go, Fred returned alone in 1955 to Tampico-Alto, fulfilling his dream as a physician. He grew old there, where he was important and of service and a champion to the native peoples. He built a new clinic and devoted himself to healing others. He would occasionally cross the border into Texas for a visit, always returning to Mexico with boxes full of second-hand clothes for the poor.
His departure into Mexico was like the ocean waves that came ashore, but each time drifted spatially out and stayed longer, like the endless sea's abyss. And finally, this last farewell trip had taken many years to materialize.
So now, with tears in his eyes, Fred gathered up his heavy old suitcase and the rope-bound cloth bag. He was getting old, disoriented and hurting. All he wanted was to reach his folks' home on Georgia Street. He called for the little dog, which he had named Blackie, seemingly appropriate. "Blackie," he said, "you and I have a lot in common. We both had a mother that once loved us. We both are roamers and adventurers. We were once young and handsome, but now we are old, wrinkled, and ugly, and without a home. We are both gypsies, so come along, ol' buddy."
Limping slightly, Fred began walking, his once tall frame half-bent carrying his heavy bags. He noticed children from afar running up to meet him on the sidewalk, Victoria's grandchildren and many other nieces and nephews, who were all expecting him. He looked back to see if Blackie was coming, but sadly, the little black dog had hesitated and had stayed in the park.
The walk from the park to his old home wasn't far, but it seemed like an eternity; it was a huge effort for his failing body. Now and then, he would stop to rest and turn around, calling Blackie's name, wanting to help the animal. Finally, his heart rejoiced seeing the black dog coming after him. He stood and rested again until the little fellow caught up with him. He was going to take him home, care for him, feed him, and heal him. After all, hadn't it always been his good nature to help and to heal?
The sun was like an enchantment finally going down and disappearing among the arboreal palms, and Fred thought how it resembled the course of his life—a brilliant sunset of fiery red-orange, yet not knowing if there would be any more mañanas for him. Somewhere on the breeze, he heard the farewell song Las Golondrinas—The Swallows—being sung.
Fred hoped that, through the years, things had changed in the Rio Grande Valley, especially regarding the hatred and discrimination that had held the Mexican-American people back. The virtue of each person seemed lost in the evils that humans do. He prophesied that one day, long after he was dead and gone, everyone would have blood cells from each different race. That the world one day would be all one race, where all would have the same skin color but would be long ways into the future. Skin color seemed so important today, but it would not be tomorrow. There would be many tomorrows, and things were going to be different then. Many changes were coming in medicine and technology.
Finally, with great effort, Fred reached his final destination, his late parents' home, with ten children surrounding him, all wanting to pet the little black dog. There was a nice supper celebration in his honor later in the evening, giving him the opportunity to see all of his old acquaintances and the newly born.
Fred saw to it that Blackie was taken care of, with plenty of food and water.
Hours later, when the house was silent, and he was getting ready to go up to bed, he approached Doña Panchita, the lady who had been Victoria's loyal servant for many years before she died.
"How did Victoria die?" Fred asked inquisitively. He needed to know.
"Ay, Dr. Juelson!" cried the old gray-haired woman. "She died in her sleep during the night," she replied, choking back tears. "The doctor said it was a heart attack. She didn't want to live after her beloved Juan died five years ago. They had loved each other so much. But…it was very strange," she said, hesitantly. "That morning…it was amazing what I found on your dead sister's bed."
"Strange?"
"The sheets, the material on the pillow cases, all were covered with what looked like black dog fur."
"Dog fur?" replied Fred, puzzled.
"Yes. And to tell you the truth, right before midnight, there was an eerie howl that seemed to come from her bedroom, almost like the howl of a dog. Funny," she said, shaking her head. "We do not have any dogs in this household."
*****
Fred died three years later, finally coming to peace with his life. His ashes were cast into the waters that flow into the
Gulf of Mexico from the majestic Rio Grande River, the river separating his two beloved countries, divided like his soul, representing his life.
*****
Fred’s river of life was a journey that started as a little, bubbling, sparkling, spring full of life. His youth promised endless strength and becoming a torrent flowing liveliness into a larger stream. From its current, it gained energy and traveled onward with determination. Beyond its limited perceptions, it saw the beauty of his garden purpose, the meadows, and plains, the wildflowers on its banks, the grass, and trees.
Tormenting storms gave his essence a powerful momentum that caused it to crash against the rocks, but it traveled and grew, moving onward in a flow that embraced the splendor of heaven and earth and the changes of the seasons.
His spirit endured life's twist and turns, its obstacles and rocky impediments along the way, and gathered and captured life's experiences, failures, wisdom, human kindness, knowledge, forgiveness and perhaps the greatest of all—love—and then waved goodbye forever. Empowered by his splendid journey, relentlessly reaching for its final destination, it delivered his soul to a better place, to the endless sea.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This is a work of fiction, but the truths it reveals ache to be told. The region of the Lower Rio Grande of South Texas does exist. The little Ranchitos that were once prevalent throughout the region have become towns and cities. The Mexican Revolution did take place and affected all of the communities along both sides of the border. The Mexican-American people lived and died and told of the many horrible incidents that took place in their lives; many still remember.
Centuries of subjugated dominance in a land saturated with so much bigotry, prejudice, and injustice are now witnessing the birth of a social identity of a proud race, after years of repression and humiliation. Years of silent fear now yearn to speak out.
The research encompassed eighteen years of living with, talking to, and taking notes from the Mexican-American people of South Texas and utilizing documents, newspapers, and original sources. I lay no claim to the accuracy where the main characters names have been changed, to protect the living relatives.
The story does not end here…another book to come will tell the tale of Fred's children.
TERRI RAGSDALE
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THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT AND HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY.
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