And so they hugged and kissed and wept together, but still Juan felt betrayed. He’d sacrificed so much and his mother made light of it. A part of him felt like spitting on God. If He was going to show them another way, then why the hell hadn’t He?
The sun was coming up behind the hills in the east, and they ate breakfast, still talking, still drinking, still ironing out their differences.
“Corazón de mi vida,” said the old lady, reaching for Juan’s huge, thick hand, “look at me, look into my eyes, and give me your hand.”
Juan did as he was told, taking his mother’s two tiny hands in his huge one.
“I didn’t send you that telegram to cause you grief because of our past. I sent it to you because you are now a man and it’s time for you to look at the future and fulfill the promise I gave to you in the desert, that I’d see you married.”
“Oh, Mama,” said Juan, thinking of Lily and Katherine.
“Don’t ‘oh, Mama’ me!” she snapped angrily. “I’m old! I don’t have much time! And I’m going to finish my earthly task and see my last born child married and on his own and that’s that!”
“But I am on my own. I’ve been on my own for years, Mama.”
She laughed, showing her red, swollen gums. “That’s not on your own. That’s alone! Now you must marry and start your own casa de la vida. And remember, the woman you marry isn’t just another woman; no, she is the sacred mother of your offspring, and so you must prepare yourself, and now. Not tomorrow. Now!”
“Oh, Mama, don’t you ever change?”
“Does God? Do the birds in the sky? The rivers in the mountains? No, of course not! I’m perfect as I am. Now you hold my hand and understand, you are a fully grown man and no man is worth his salt if he doesn’t marry and have children.” And she closed her eyes, still talking. “Blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh, and now you must prepare yourself by getting pure inside your heart and soul so that you can open yourself to the love del corazón. Remember, we are not of the bull, nor of the stallion, but of God, the Creator Himself. And just as the Almighty spoke to Don Pío and gave him a dream, you must now open your ears and eyes and find your own dream. For no man or woman is anything without a dream.”
And Juan didn’t want to, he really didn’t, but there it began again, and he was once more under the spell of his mother, the greatest force that he’d ever known.
Juan had been home a few days before he realized how truly poor his family was and how run-down their two little houses were. He bought hammers and nails and got some roofing paper and fixed their roofs. Then he bought some shovels and hoes and went to work with Luisa’s children, José and little Pedro, cleaning the outhouse and turning the soil under the big avocado tree. They fixed the hen house and put new siding on the goat shed so that the boys’ grandmother wouldn’t get so cold in the night.
José was an excellent worker, and Juan and his two nephews talked as they worked. José wanted to know about Mexico and especially about his real father, José Luis, whom he’d never met.
“Was he a good hombre?” asked the boy.
“The best,” said Juan, “a real macho a las todas! Big and strong and slow-moving, and he never lost his temper or got impatient when things went wrong. I was just about your age when he and Luisa got married, and he showed me a lot of love. I’d stay with them and he’d put me on his lap, calling me his amo. I loved him. He never abused me like my own father did.”
“You mean that your own father was bad to you?” asked the boy.
Juan had to laugh. “Hell, my father treated the dogs better than me. He only had eyes for my brother Domingo, who was blue-eyed like himself.”
“You mean our papagrande wouldn’t have liked us either,” said José, turning to his brother Pedro, “because we both got dark eyes?”
Juan was sorry that he had started the whole thing, but he wasn’t going to lie to his nephews now. “Maybe not,” he said. “There’s a lot of prejudice in Mexico, too, you know.”
José flinched and he didn’t ask any more questions, and they continued working together. Juan thought about the good men of his life—his brother José, the great protector of their mountain, and his grandfather, Don Pío, and the two big giants, Basilio and Mateo—and all the manly examples that he’d had of what a real hombre could be.
Luisa brought them some tacos and the three of them sat down to eat in the shade of the big avocado tree. Juan couldn’t believe it, José actually ate like his father whom he’d never known. He chewed with his mouth open, showing his big teeth, and rolled his mouth to his left side.
Juan glanced at Pedro and he was again amazed. Why, he, too, ate like his father, Epitacio.
Juan shook his head in wonderment. Why, his mother was absolutely right, blood was blood. So a man really did have to be very careful who he married if he wanted to have good offspring.
“Tell me,” said José, chewing his food in the big, mouth-rolling, lazy dog action his father had always done, “is it true that we were once a big, powerful familia back in Mexico, tío?”
“Yes,” said Juan.
“But not rich, eh?” said Pedro.
“Why do you say that?” asked Juan.
“Because Mexicans are always poor, right?” said Pedro.
Juan reached out, scratching the younger boy’s head of sandy brown hair. He, also, looked a lot like his father Epitacio, small, quick, cute, with eyes that danced full of happy mischief.
“No, not necessarily,” said Juan. “Mexicans sometimes have money, too, Pedro. But we didn’t. We had land and livestock and fields of corn.”
“See, I told you,” said Pedro, laughing at his brother. “Mexicans can’t be rich! That’s all bull what Mama has been telling us.”
“What?” said Juan.
“Nothing,” said José, giving his seven-year-old brother the mean eye. “It’s just that, well, when Mamagrande and Mama tell us of the past, Pedro and I sometimes . . . well, can’t really believe them.”
“Oh, I see,” said Juan. “So you don’t believe your own blood, eh? But you do believe the gringos, eh, that only gringos can be rich, eh?”
“Well, that’s all we’ve ever seen,” said Pedro. “Not one Mexican in all the barrio has even a good car.”
Juan took a big breath. “Oh, I see. So when your Mamagrande and your Mother tell you of Don Pío, who fought alongside Benito Juarez, and José the great, who defended us from the Revolution for over four years, you doubt them?”
The two boys could see that their uncle was getting angry.
“Well, do you? Answer me!”
The two boys nodded. And tears came to Pedro’s eyes.
Juan looked from one nephew to the other. He didn’t know what to do. Never in a thousand years would he have believed that the flesh and blood of the great Don Pío would come to doubt the worth of their own familia.
He got to his feet and walked away before he strangled his two nephews. Oh, he was crazy, loco, raging mad. He and his mother and sister had suffered so much, and for what? To come to this? Your own not having faith in themselves anymore? Oh, he felt like killing the whole damn world!
Later that day, Juan was smoking a cigar outback, watching his two nephews play baseball with the neighbors across the street. The sun was setting behind the luscious orchard of orange trees, and Juan was thinking about Lily and Katherine and Montana and how good he had it up there.
But, he’d promised his mother that he would never leave her again, so he couldn’t just take off like a thief in the night. Oh, a part of him wished that he hadn’t come back.
“Don’t do it, Juan,” said Luisa, coming up behind him.
“Don’t do what?” he said, glancing up at his sister.
“Leave us,” she said, sitting down beside him. “Remember, I could have left you all behind at the border, too. But I didn’t. I forced Epitacio to return for you.”
Juan looked at her, taking a deep breath. “But I can make big money running th
ose poker tables back in Montana,” he said. “And I could send you and Mama money regularly.”
“Money isn’t everything,” said Luisa. “Our family, our blood, our dreams these are the reasons that we’ve been struggling all these years; not money.”
Juan picked up a stick, poking the ground in front of him.
“Juan,” she said, “I can’t do it alone, I’m a woman and unfortunately a woman alone can’t do it. Look at them, playing baseball like little gringos, and every time I try to tell them about our once great familia, they laugh. Not in my face, of course, but inside their souls which is far worse.” She stopped and looked at him. “Juan, we need you. You’re the only one left.”
Juan stopped poking the ground with the stick and looked at his sister, at her eyes, her mouth, her wide strong cheekbones, and he felt trapped. Yet, he fully knew that what she said was true. Their own mother, if she had been a man, would’ve ruled Mexico with the greatness of Benito Juarez. And Luisa, with her power and cunning, would be an hombre to be reckoned with.
“But we can’t force you, Juan,” said Luisa. “It’s got to come from you. Just as it came from Don Pío when he spoke to God and started our settlement. Just as it came from José, our great brother, who defended us from war. It’s got to come from you, Juan, come from your corazón,” she said, tears coming to her eyes.
Juan saw her tears and breathed deeply. He thought of Don Pío and the night that he’d camped on that knoll with his two brothers and how all their lives had been changed because of that. He thought of José the great, and how he’d almost spared them of the war. Two great hombres who’d taken up ground and reached for the stars and brought miracle after miracle down here to earth. His eyes filled with tears. It was true, it really was true. He’d been alone up in Montana, not on his own. For a man, a real macho to be on his own was to be rooted to the earth with his balls, his tanates, with the blood and flesh of his familia.
“All right,” he said, “I’ll stay, Luisa. I’ll stay.”
“Good,” she said. “I knew you’d do it.”
And she took him in her arms and it was good, brother and sister holding, heart-to-heart.
The next afternoon, Juan decided to go to town to see if he could find a poker game. After all, since he was going to stay, he would have to find a way to make a living.
It was a long walk to town, past acres and acres of raw, unused land and a few orchards and fields of well-fed cattle.
“Man, oh, man,” said Juan to himself, “if one day I could just buy a nice little piece of land and build a house on a knoll like Don Pío. Then get a car, a good one, and prove to the boys that a Mexican can be somebody. That would be beautiful.”
He smiled, thinking that maybe the Almighty had sent him to California, just as He’d sent their grandfather to Los Altos de Jalisco.
He began to whistle, feeling good, realizing that something had been missing down deep inside himself when he’d been all alone up in Montana. He’d just been thinking of himself which, of course, was easy for any good, healthy, strong young man.
Getting into town, Juan quickly found out that they played poker at the pool hall across the street from the park in the center of town. Walking through the little park, Juan glanced inside the pool hall and saw that it was still too early. There was no real action going on except for a few young boys playing pool and some old men passing the time with cards. He decided to go and get something to eat before he got ready for a long night of poker.
A professional never entered a game for just a few hours. A professional always went into the game fully prepared to play until the early hours of the morning when everyone was tired and drunk and loose with their money. A professional was a very well-organized hombre aprevenido, watchful, forewarned.
Up the street, Juan found a little café and he went inside and sat down by the far wall. He was hungry, and the waitress was a nice-looking, young American girl. He ordered a cup of coffee, and ham and eggs, even though it was almost dinnertime.
This was another trick that he’d learned from Duel, when you are getting ready to play all night, treat the early evening like daybreak, treat the middle of the night like high noon and play your cards like a job. Never a sport of passing the time.
Eating the eggs and juicy, thick ham, Juan sipped his coffee, and he began thinking about Montana and all the years that he’d spent up there. His mother was right; he really had become a loner, always going from here to there by himself, following the railroad and mines and the sugar beets until he’d met Duel. He wondered how difficult it was going to be for him to fit back into a family after all those years of being alone. He just wasn’t used to being with people day in and day out. And he did miss Montana, especially Katherine. My God, that woman had been a fine lady. She’d taught him so much.
Finishing his breakfast, Juan lit up a long cigar and quit thinking of the past. With slow deliberation, he began to think about the poker game that lay ahead. He pulled down into his guts, as Duel had shown him how to do, and he concentrated on the possibilities of the cards, the men, their faces, their weaknesses. Poker, after all, wasn’t a game of chance or luck or cheating. Only fools thought that. Poker was a game of power, of one man’s personal strength over another man’s weaknesses. A professional had to concentrate, prepare himself inside.
And so Juan was smoking, thinking, remembering all that Duel had taught him when he suddenly got the feeling that someone was staring at him. He turned around and, sure enough, there was the cook, a short heavy-set man with a dirty white apron, staring at him.
“Excuse me,” said the man, “but you see, my waitress, she’s new and so she didn’t know that we can’t serve Mexicans.”
At first, Juan didn’t quite understand.
“Look, I don’t want no problems,” said the cook with a heavy Greek accent, “but I’m only trying to make a living, so you got to get out.”
Now Juan understood. “But who says I’m Mexican?” said Juan in Greek, smiling as he glanced around and realized for the first time that all the other people in the place were looking at him. “I could maybe be Greek, you know,” he continued speaking in fluent Greek.
The cook’s eyebrows knitted together. He apologized and quickly started speaking in Greek, too, asking Juan his name and where he came from. Juan grinned and answered him rapidly in Greek.
“That’s pretty good,” laughed the Greek, “but still, your accent’s a little bit off, amigo.” He came close to Juan. “Look,” he said softly, “I live just around back with my family and, to my home, you’re welcome any time. But here, you know how it is, I have to stay in business, so I’m still going to have to ask you to leave.”
Juan’s whole face turned red. Never in his life had he been asked to leave a place just because he was Mexican. He stared at the man in the eyes and he could see that it was truly hurting the Greek to ask him to go, but he was still doing it.
“All right,” said Juan, getting to his feet, towering over the man and feeling the .38 under his coat, his heart pounding with rage. “How much do I owe you?”
“Ham and eggs, fifteen cents,” said the cook. “And five cents for the coffee.”
Juan peeled off a dollar. “Keep the change” he yelled, tossing the money to the floor. He turned around, staring at all the people who were looking at him. They quickly glanced away. Oh, he was flying so high that he was ready to kill.
Now he suddenly knew why those two old Mexican men had stared at him with hate in their eyes the first day that he’d come into the barrio in the taxi. He also knew why his own two nephews had so much doubt. Mexicans were nothing but dog shit down here, along the border, and he’d forgotten.
He walked out of the restaurant, head high, straining not to draw his gun and kill every son-of-a-bitch in the place.
Still trembling with rage, Juan walked into the pool hall and breathed in the full smell of the cigarette smoke and the sweat of the men. He saw that half of them were Mexicans and
realized that, here, no one cared what you were as long as you had money so they could take it from you.
Dropping his cigar into the brass spittoon, Juan walked across the room, surveying the three poker tables beyond the pool tables. The overhead fans were blowing good, and Juan’s trained eyes immediately told him that they were playing for peanuts at two of the tables. He knew this, not so much by the amount of money that was on the tables, but by the lack of intensity in the men’s eyes. The third table, on the other hand, was of a whole different caliber.
At this table, the men weren’t just there to pass the time of day and lose a little money for the fun of it. No, at this table, the men were deadly serious. There were two tough-looking Mexicans at the table, two big, raw-boned Anglos, a small-boned, quick-eyed Filipino, and a formidable-looking dark-skinned man of, maybe, Italian blood.
Suddenly, the hair came up on Juan’s neck. His instincts told him that the Filipino and the Italian were in together. There was just something too perfect as they sat directly across the table from each other.
Juan went to the long bar, ordered a Coke, and watched the action for a while. He decided not to play at the main table, this being his first night. After all, it was always very dangerous to come into another professional’s setup without having someone protecting your back.
Sitting down at one of the lesser tables, Juan was only able to win two dollars in a couple of hours. He knew that he’d never get ahead playing like this. If he wanted to make a living at cards here in California and buy a car to show his nephews, he was going to have to kick caution to the wind and move to the big table.
Besides, he’d also been trained by the best, so he figured that he could pull in a couple of big pots and not upset the action that the Filipino and Italian had going. A couple of twenty-dollar pots would put him in a good place. Five dollars alone would pay the rent for his family’s two little houses for a month. And within the week he could maybe win enough to get himself a good car.
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