They all sat down. Carlota and Lupe came in with a tray of tea and sweet breads. Lupe looked fantastic. It was hard for Salvador to not stare at her. She served the tea, and Carlota gave them each a sweet bread on a small plate. Then, Lupe and Carlota sat down alongside their parents. No one said anything. The priest drank his tea and ate his bread. Everyone watched him. Salvador began to fear that the priest had forgotten the purpose of their visit.
“Well,” said the priest, having finished his bread, “this is a great honor for me, Señor y Señora. So many young people come to me nowadays seeking marriage, but they do not understand the seriousness of this bond between a man and woman. But this young man does.”
He brought out his handkerchief, dusting the crumbs of the sweet bread off his lap. He began to use the handkerchief like a magic wand as he spoke. “I know Salvador’s mother very well. She comes to church every day, rain or shine. And she raised this young man that you see before you to understand the fundamentals of life. And, most especially, the sacrament of holy matrimony!”
The priest went on, and he had them all eating out of the palm of his hand.
“And from what I’ve seen,” he said, turning to Carlota, “I see that your daughter is also ready for this most holy of sacraments, so I don’t think there should be further . . . “
Salvador’s hands began to shake. Lupe turned crimson with embarrassment. But Carlota loved it, smiling at the priest.
Father Ryan wasn’t to be distracted. “Of course, I know that life has not been easy for you, Señor y Señora,” he continued. “I know that you suffered those great tragedies of the terrible war in Mexico as so many other families who’ve come to the United States. But I will now say that a moment like this makes the tragedies of life worthwhile.”
He opened his voice in a grand manner. “For this is a moment to treasure! Two young people in love, coming to their parents in the most respectful and dignified of ways to ask their permission to enter into the sacrament of holy matrimony!”
He glanced at Carlota once again. Salvador almost screamed. He couldn’t stand it.
“So now, on behalf of Juan Salvador Villaseñor, whom I know is a wonderful young man with honorable upbringing, I ask for the hand of your daughter, Guadalupe María Gómez.”
And he began to extend his hand toward Carlota, but Salvador leaped, hitting the light fixture above him with his head, and he fell backwards into his chair, breaking it.
Quickly, Victoriano came to Salvador’s aid.
But it was Doña Guadalupe who saved the day. She simply stood up and took the priest’s hand and led him toward Lupe.
“Oh, yes,” said Father Ryan, “thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome,” said Doña Guadalupe. “And you’re entirely right; this is a moment to treasure. Guadalupe,” she said to Lupe, “come and take the Father’s hand, querida.”
Lupe stood up. She was so embarrassed, but she took the priest’s hand anyway and made a small curtsy.
Salvador was on his feet now, blood running down the side of his face. He waved Victoriano away, assuring him that he was fine.
Don Victor was dying to laugh. He could smell the liquor on these two drunk men. “Well,” he said, coming up, “my wife and I will consider your proposal very carefully, and we’ll let you know within a week what it is that we decide.”
“Thank you,” said the priest, “then we’ll say goodnight.”
Salvador and the priest went out the door. Once they were in the Moon and driving up the street, Salvador let out a scream of pain.
“Damn, that hurt!” he yelled, grabbing his head.
“Here, have another drink,” said the priest.
“Good thinking,” said Salvador.
And so the priest and Salvador drank all the way back to Corona, singing Irish songs once again.
That same evening, Don Victor sat on the porch of his house, smoking a cigarette and thinking very seriously about this proposal. He’d run into Don Manuel a few days before, and Don Manuel had told him a fantastic story about a notorious bootlegger from Corona who drove a Moon automobile.
Don Victor wondered if, indeed, this bootlegger could possibly be Salvador. He decided to do some checking. After all, his daughter’s happiness was at stake.
It was the longest week of Salvador’s life. And he couldn’t very well go to visit Lupe, so he kept away from Santa Ana altogether. He went to work and rented a big house just south of Los Angeles in Watts to set up the distillery. He used up the last of his capital to buy all the materials that they’d need. Epitacio agreed to be in charge of the distillery plant and Domingo agreed to work strictly under Epitacio’s orders. No visitors would be allowed. No heavy drinking or fooling around. If the law came down on the house for any reason, it would be Epitacio’s and Domingo’s responsibility. And if the law came down on Salvador, as he did the distribution and sales, it would be his responsibility. For the first time in his life, Salvador had time on his hands. His capital was working for him, he had a distilling plant going, and he didn’t have to be slaving day and night.
He decided to spend time with his mother. After all, if she was right and they weren’t going to be so close anymore, then there was nothing more in all of life that he’d rather do than be with her.
“So tell me about the days before your own marriage, Mama,” he said.
“Oh, those were difficult times for me, mi hijito,” said Doña Margarita. “You see, back in those days there weren’t any telephones or other means of communication, so many times the father of the bride went out to investigate into the life of the prospective groom.”
“You mean that Lupe’s father could be here, right now, in Corona, investigating me?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said.
“Oh, my God!” said Salvador. “I always figured that it was Lupe’s mother that I had to watch out for. I never considered her father.”
Doña Margarita laughed. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve already sent word throughout the barrios. They’ll know what to expect. Now, getting back to my story,” she said, sipping her coffee laced with whiskey, “about ten days before my wedding, your grandfather went to Guadalajara to find out about your father. It was the longest week of my life. I feared that Don Pío would discover something horrible. Then, I’ll never forget as long as I live how your grandfather came riding in on his great stallion with such a look in his eyes the night before my wedding. He took me aside and told me this incredible story about Don Juan and his first cousin, a tall red-headed woman like himself whom he’d grown up with. Don Juan and his cousin had been in love since childhood. But they were first cousins, so of course, they couldn’t marry. And the night before she was to marry a local dignitary, Don Juan picked a fight with the man, challenging him to a duel, and he killed the man. The relatives of the dignitary chased Don Juan into the hills and he killed two more men before escaping; that’s how he ended up in our mountains.”
“No!” said Salvador. “But why hadn’t you ever told us this story before?”
“Mi hijito, there are many stories between a husband and wife that they never share with their children.”
“There are?”
She smiled. “Of course. Remember, you’re only half grown. You haven’t married, or had children, so there’s much you can’t comprehend.”
He breathed deeply. “What happened to my father’s cousin?” he asked.
Tears came to Doña Margarita’s eyes. “The poor woman was put in a convent in Mexico City by her relatives for the rest of her life!” she said. “And your grandfather was furious. He said to me, ‘You can’t marry him. For he still loves his cousin who is tall and blue-eyed like himself, and you’re short and dark like me, and this blue-eyed man will throw this into your face every time you two quarrel.’”
“‘No, Papa!’ I said.
“‘Oh, yes,’ he told me. ‘And if you have dark children, he won’t love them equally, either.’ Oh, I was torn to th
e depths of my soul, mi hijito, but what could I do? I was in love. And so I said, ‘Enough, Papa, not another word; I’m marrying him.’
“And so he didn’t say another word, but I can tell you that I went to my wedding with a very heavy heart the next day.”
“My God!” said Salvador. He was stunned. He hadn’t known anything about this and, yet, it explained so much. “Then you mean that this is the same woman that you used to write to in that convent in Mexico City?”
“Yes,” said his mother, wiping her eyes. “The only sin she ever committed was being young and in love, and yet her whole family abandoned her.” She breathed deeply. “You know, I’ve often wondered, mi hijito, if Don Pío hadn’t gone to Guadalajara and found out all that, maybe our marriage would’ve turned out differently. Knowing all that about your father caused me to see every argument that we had as a fight of jealousy, of me fighting against this gorgeous lost cousin of his.”
“Did you ever discuss his cousin with him?”
“Was your father a man someone could discuss anything with? Especially if it gave him pain? No, we never spoke about her. But I did write to her, as I told you, and she wrote back, and we became great friends.”
“Oh, Mama,” said Salvador, “but how could you be friends with her?”
“And why not? Her only sin was to be in love with your father; and so was I.”
Salvador sat there looking at his mother, realizing that it was true; he was, indeed, only half grown and knew very little about love and women and marriage and many of the great mysteries of the heart. It seemed to him as if he’d been a child all these years, thinking only about survival and his own amusement. He took a deep breath, wondering if he was really ready for this big new step in life called marriage. He decided yes, definitely, if he was ever going to be ready it was now.
That afternoon, Salvador went out into the barrios to see if Don Victor was checking up on him. He found out that he was. Don Victor had spent a lot of time with Don Rodolfo, so Salvador went over to see the schoolteacher.
“Hello, Rodolfo,” said Salvador, walking into his ramada.
“Hello to you, too,” said the schoolteacher, realizing that Salvador had never been under his roof before.
“I hear that Don Victor came by,” said Salvador.
“Yes, he did,” said Rodolfo.
“And?” said Salvador.
“And he asked about you, of course,” said the teacher. “So I told him the truth.”
“You what!” said Salvador, exploding.
“Yes,” said Rodolfo. “I told him that you are a man among men. A Francisco Villa and that I’m proud to call you my friend.”
Salvador came back down. “Gracias,” he said to Rodolfo. “I owe you one. I’ll give you a gallon of whiskey so you can sell a few pints on the side and make a little extra money.”
“That’s not necessary,” said Rodolfo, clicking his heels together and saluting Salvador. “I spoke from the heart.”
Trying on one of his suits that week, Salvador found out that he’d gained a little weight. He decided to do some hard manual work and lose some pounds. It always seemed to him that he got a small pot belly every time he wasn’t doing hard time in prison, or working sun up to sun down.
He quit eating fruit and vegetables, thinking that these were what made you fat, because cattle and pigs ate these and got fat. He ate nothing but beans and meat with lots of chile and tortillas and then washed it all down with plenty of whiskey, which he thought stimulated digestion, because drunks were always so skinny.
He began to run every morning as he’d seen boxers do to get in shape, but still he couldn’t lose an ounce. He ate more tortillas and beans and cut back on the meat, figuring that maybe it was the meat that made him fat.
Then, one day, he got an inner tube from a tire and cut it to fit around his waist, and he ran with José out of town and past the farthest orchards. He was pouring with sweat; he started to gasp. José had to cut the inner tube off of Salvador before he passed out.
That night, Salvador had terrible dreams. He just knew that Don Victor had found out about him, and now Lupe wasn’t going to marry him. He thought of going to the church and confessing all his sins to the priest; but, no, he couldn’t bring himself to tell any mortal man of the nightmares he carried inside his heart, especially not about Duel, whom he’d loved more than his own father.
Then, it was late Thursday afternoon, the day that Salvador and the priest were supposed to go to Lupe’s house for her answer. Picking up the priest, Salvador was so nervous he couldn’t think.
“Get hold of yourself,” said the priest.
“But what if her parents say no?” he said. “Remember, they’re not a drinking family, and maybe they’ve found out that I’m a bootlegger . . . I mean my friend is a bootlegger?”
The priest only smiled. “But bootlegging isn’t against the laws of God, my son,” he said. “Only in this country is liquor-making illegal. Calm down. Here, have a drink. Remember, the first miracle of our Lord Jesus was turning water into wine.”
Salvador laughed. “Then every time I make liquor, I mean my friend makes liquor, then he’s close to the Lord?”
“If he makes good whiskey,” said the priest with a twinkle in his eyes.
Salvador laughed, loving it, and they drank down their whiskeys and then took off.
“You know,” said Salvador as they came into the outskirts of Santa Ana, “I had some bad dreams the other night, and I thought of maybe coming to confession; but you see, Father, it’s been a long time since I made my last confession.”
The priest turned and looked at Salvador. He was sober today and he looked very pious. “Well, we can do it right now if you want,” he said.
“You mean my confession?”
“Of course,” said the priest. “We can pull over and do it right here.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Salvador took a big breath. He hadn’t expected this. He dug deep down inside himself: But no, no matter how much a part of him wanted to, he still wasn’t ready to confess yet. He still had a lot of hate inside himself. “Could we maybe do that some other time and just pray together right now, Father?” he asked. It was the first time that he’d used the term “Father” with this priest.
“Of course,” said the man of God, making the sign of the cross over himself. He began to pray, and Salvador followed him, but it was very difficult for him. He glanced up at the sky and the clouds overhead. He saw that there was a large raven flying by alongside them. The big black bird turned his head and looked at Salvador. Quickly Salvador glanced at the priest to see if he’d seen the bird’s look, but the priest hadn’t. His eyes were closed as he prayed. Salvador was glad that he had this man of the cloth here at his side as a good friend, but oh, he was still far away from confessing to anyone. Not even to God Himself.
After putting his rosary away, the priest took Salvador’s arm. “Everything’s going to be all right,” he said. “You come from good people. Your mother is the finest.”
Salvador took a deep breath. “Thank you, Father.”
Arriving at Lupe’s home, they went up to the door and Carlota answered it. She was so happy, a regular chatterbox. Salvador immediately figured that this wasn’t good. Carlota had never liked him, and so for her to be so happy could only mean that his proposal had been turned down.
Inside, Don Victor was waiting for them. He looked at Salvador with a certain kind of mischievousness. Salvador felt his legs go weak. The old man had found out everything about him. Oh, he had been a fool to ever think that a monster like himself could possibly marry an innocent girl like Lupe. He’d lost. And he was never going to be able to find another woman like Lupe, even if he searched to the ends of the earth.
But then, to his surprise, Don Victor came walking across the room and took the priest’s hand.
“Come right this way, Father,” he said. “Everyone is in the back.” He turned to Salvador
. “Buenas tardes,” he said with that same little grin.
“Buenas tardes,” said Salvador, feeling very cautious.
They went out to the back. Lupe was under the large walnut tree with her brother, talking to the little girl, Isabel. Lupe was wearing a simple white dress with a red ribbon in her rich, dark hair. The going sunlight was coming down through the tree branches, surrounding her in a pond of pale golden light. Salvador’s heart stopped.
Lupe truly looked like an angel. “Oh, God,” he said to himself, “please help me. I don’t want to lose her.”
Then she turned, just as he thought these words. Her large, dark almond-shaped eyes were so happy to see him that he just knew God had heard him and her parents had said yes. They really had. He could see it in her eyes. His heart went soaring to the heavens.
Doña Guadalupe walked over to the priest and showed him a pot of beautiful lilies. They laughed and talked, but Salvador couldn’t hear a word. He only had eyes for his angel. This was the most miraculous moment of his life.
“Excuse us,” said Don Victor, taking Salvador by the arm, “but you and I need to speak alone for a minute.”
Don Victor turned Salvador about and led him away. “I’ve spoken to Don Manuel,” said the old man under his breath, still holding Salvador by the arm.
Salvador froze.
“Calm down,” said Don Victor, feeling the muscles of Salvador’s arm go rigid, “I also spoke to Archie and to lots of other men about you.”
Salvador breathed deeply.
“Relax,” said the old man, winking at Salvador. “I, too, drank and gambled all my life so, between men I know how these things work. Archie spoke highly of you and so did most of the other men. You are a macho, they say, a man of his word. And, also, I realize that drinking and gambling aren’t necessarily evil. It’s just that I hurt my dear wife time and again, and that’s why she fears them. I don’t want the same thing to happen to my daughter.”
Rain of Gold Page 69