You sound like you’re pretty smart, Monica. Are you a good student?
Always straight A’s, sir. I like to study and read and do homework, unlike some of the other retards around here who I won’t mention by name. She whispers: Doog.
Is somebody practicing the piano there?
Yes, sir. I play piano too. But that’s Brigida. She’s just starting. She’s Doog’s sister, but she’s not as stupid as he is. Their mom works in a fish house too.
And Yandra plays in a rock band?
Oh yes, that band, Monica says. They’re not really a rock band. They’re called Ahab’s Hussies. It’s drunk sailor music performed by crazy ladies. Sea shanties, have you heard of those? That kind of music. They won’t be playing with Beyoncé at Gillette Stadium anytime soon, but I guess they have some fans around here. I told Yandra if they want to make a music video they better hire some dancers though. Right now their big move is when they all turn around and shake their butts at the audience. I don’t think seeing that on a video will make a lot of people buy tickets for their shows. Monica laughs with glee.
I hear a woman’s voice explode in the background. Fucking Yandra, you can’t even put the fire on under the fucking frijoles! Not even that! Fuck you, Madame! Fuck you!
Oh-oh, here we go again, Monica says into the phone. Don’t worry, this happens all the time around here. Oh wow, and now here comes Yandra down the stairs.
Madame? She means my sister?
In the background: Lagranputa always the same excuse. Oh I have a show. I have a rehearsal. I have to go and see my mother. Oh, I have this. I don’t give a fuck, Señorita Candil de la calle, oscuridad de la casa. It was your turn to make the cena, but Madame can’t even put the fire on under the frijoles.
Maki, please, just a minute, I know I know. It’s my brother, please … I hear my sister’s pleading. Now Lexi loud in my ear: Frank! Is this really you? What a surprise! But Maki, in the background: Give the patojos Domino’s again, eh, Madame? When all are fat diabéticos, don’t blame me!
Yes, it’s me, hi Lexi. Sounds like—
Maki: So fuck you, Madame!
Frankie, let me call you back—
Sure, Lexi. Sounds like you have a situation—
Maki: Not going to your fucking dyke-ass show tonight, either.
Yes, a situation, says Lexi, sounding a little panicked. Frankie, I’m sorry, honestly, it’s not so bad as I’m sure it sounds, I’ll call you right back.
Yandra? Fuck you, Madame Yandra? What was all that? It’s like discovering a new civilization, not in the Amazon but deep inside your own family.
I stand waiting on Tremont, near Boylston, on the sidewalk at the edge of the Common. A Dunkin’ Donuts right across the street. Every time I see a Dunkin’ Donuts, I’ll be like one of those Mexico City taxi drivers who crosses himself whenever he drives past a church, except I’ll be thinking of Lulú. The dusk is a soft, rosy brown, a pink-tinged light that’s making the hard scraps and patches of snow in the Common glow like distant icebergs. Even though it’s a Sunday evening, there are plenty of people out on the sidewalk and in the Common, traffic moving slowly down Tremont. The phone rings in my hand. Hi Lexi.
Hi Frank, I forgot to put the fire on under the frijoles, as I guess you heard, says Lexi in a tone of affected, mortified culpability. Frijoles and rice is a staple around here, she says, just like in Guatemala. Do you remember how we always had frijoles at Abuelita’s house? But it takes hours to cook. Good thing we have tortillas, turkey hot dogs, and Kraft macaroni and cheese in the house.
Okay, Lexi, sounds good, I say—so often this stingy brusqueness when I talk to my sister. Stop it, I tell myself. Be sweet to her. Tell her about the damn arrowhead.
I’m so glad you got to meet Monica, she goes on. I mean by phone, at least. Isn’t she great, Frank? She was born in Guatemala but she was only one year old when her parents came here. She’s going to go to Harvard, you wait and see. Lexi is making an effort to keep her voice bright, as if to compensate for all that uproar I was just listening to.
Yes, Monica seems pretty amazing, I say. But wow, Lexi, your house seems pretty lively.
Oh it sure is, says Lexi. Maki is who you heard shouting about the frijoles. Maki and I are good friends. So don’t let all her fuck yous give you the wrong impression, Frank. Madame Yandra, that’s just her nickname for me. Maki just talks like that, because when she first got here she heard so many people saying fuck she just thought that was English. Do you get what I mean? This is a fishing port, Frank, full of fishermen, rough guys, so you can guess how people talk around here.
I get it, I say. Hey, I have a surprise for you. But I didn’t manage to pronounce that with much enthusiasm.
Maki’s really been through a lot, Lexi goes on. But she’s so strong. Well, she’s strong and not so strong, like all of us, I guess. She’s been in New Bedford twelve years. She’s a bruja, you know. She has powers, so be careful, haha. Well, she isn’t really, it’s her abuelita who was a real Maya bruja. Maki learned from her. She can tell you all about this 2012 thing that’s coming and how some of the old shamans prophesize the world is going to end in five years. Do you know about that, Frank?
I’ve heard of it, I say. Is this the bruja you asked to help find me a wife?
Mom told you about that, didn’t she, says Lexi. I did ask her not to tell you, Frank. I’m a little upset with Yoli that she told you.
Don’t be upset, Lexi, I say. I was surprised when Ma told me, but then I thought it was really nice of you.
A brief silence, followed by a little falsetto laugh. Did it work? she asks.
Well, I thought it was working, for a bit, I say. Maybe not anymore, though.
I’ll ask Maki to do it again, she says. When she’s in a better mood, okay? This will blow over by tomorrow, you’ll see.
Okay, sure, thank you, Lexi. So what’s going on, these cool kids in your house, mothers who work in factories and fish-processing houses. Are you running a boardinghouse?
No, it’s not a boardinghouse, she says. It’s a not-for-profit venture, she says. So no, you can’t call it a boardinghouse.
A commune?
A commune? Her laugh is amused but abrupt. Oh Frank, it’s such a long story. I’ll have to tell you in person sometime, if you promise not to write about it.
Ha, okay. Well, I was thinking of coming out tomorrow.
You were? Why? Another nervous titter. I mean, that’s wonderful, Frank, she says. But what a surprise! This is really unexpected.
I have something for you, I say.
Something for me?
Something you’ve been missing for a long time.
Missing for a long time?
Yeah, what have you been missing since, let’s see, since you were in about the third grade?
A brother?
A moment of silence, I’m not offended, of course not, just a little taken aback. She laughs and says, Oh my God, I can’t believe I said that. I was just joking.
Yeah, I get it, I say. It’s okay. I haven’t been around much all these years, I know that. But no, I say. I’m not the thing that was missing. When I give it to you, I’m sure it’ll all come back. So, Lexi, you’re in a band, too, I go on. That’s so great.
Yeah, she says. You always said I could be like Mama Cass.
And I think, So this is how it’s going to be. I just wanted you to be a musician like I know you really wanted to be, I tell Lexi, instead of a businessperson just to please Mom. And now, look at you. Ahab’s Hussies, what a great name!
Thank you, we’re proud of it, she says. We have fun, but it’s just fiddling, you know. Aunt Hannah must be turning over in her grave.
Lexi, you didn’t get married and not tell me, did you?
What? No, Frank, of course not.
To a policeman?
A policema
n! She theatrically groans. Oh God, no. Mom means Mauricio, but that was like three years ago, right after I moved here. He was mostly just a friend, but he still comes and goes. Yes, he was a policeman, quite some time ago, in Mexico City, where you live. You must have passed each other in the street there. Anyway, Mauricio is a fascinating story, Frank. Maybe I’ll tell you about him sometime.
Okay, sure, I say. A former Mexico City cop in New Bedford, love to hear his story.
You know, Yoli’s memory is really starting to deteriorate, says Lexi. Yesterday when I saw the can of butter cookies in her room—gourmet cookies from Paris, oh, they’re so delicious, Frank—I asked her if you’d just visited, and she didn’t even remember. The nurse told me you’d been there the day before. Mom doesn’t just forget. She gets fantasy mixed up with reality too. You know what she said to me? That she and Bert had a happy marriage. You hear something like that and you think, Jesus Christ, what’s the point of anything if in the end you’re just going to forget everything, right? But thank God most of the time Yoli’s still herself, our remarkable, inspiring mother.
Yes she is, I say. And I’m glad I got to see her. But it does seem like you have a big family life of your own now.
Yes, life has many surprises, doesn’t it? she says.
I can’t wait to hear about it, I say. Lexi, can I ask you something else?
Sure, Frank, she says.
Do you still have that old oil painting portrait that Daddy’s boyhood friend made of Mom? He was called Herb, remember? He used to come over the house sometimes when we were little.
Of course I have it, she says. It’s hanging in our parlor. Herb wasn’t just Daddy’s boyhood friend. He was a very fashionable painter, Frank, with a studio near Newbury Street. He thought Yoli was so beautiful that he offered to make a painting of her for free as long as he could make a copy for himself. She was pregnant with you when she sat for that painting. You knew that, right? It was a few months after the wedding. She was already showing a little, but Herb hid that in the painting.
I didn’t know that part. Are you sure?
Really, you didn’t know that, Frankie? I’ve known that forever. Did you know that he was gay. In the closet though, like people had to be back then, but Daddy knew and he told Mom.
Does that have anything to do with why he stopped coming over the house?
I remember Mom saying once that he’d moved to Morocco, but I haven’t heard anything about him in such a long time.
Mom told you Herb moved to Morocco, not Dad?
Well, yes, Mom and Herb were friends too. Maybe Morocco was a place where he could be himself? I doubt he’s still alive, though.
He was a World War Two vet, I say. The stories he used to tell me were like episodes from that show Combat!
Oh yes, I do remember a little of that, she says. From Combat! That was your favorite show. But we always argued over which was better, Star Trek or Lost in Space. You used to make me feel like I was boring for liking Star Trek.
Time has proven you right, Lexi. Star Trek is the classic. Lost in Space is just another silly sitcom. But I wanted to watch Lost in Space, and they were on at the same time. You must also have Ma’s old photo albums, right?
I do, yes, but they’re put away. Don’t want the kids getting ahold of them.
Do you remember her wedding photos?
I think I do, yes, says Lexi.
Is there a picture that shows Tío Memo at the wedding?
Tío Memo didn’t go to the wedding, says my sister. He was against the marriage. You didn’t know that, Frankie? Maybe he thought Dad was too old or because he was Jewish or both. Mom really didn’t like to talk about it, you know. Uncle Memo made up with Bert later, though, for the sake of Mom and the family. Well, you know how much Mom loved her brother. You’ve always been close to Memo. He’s never said anything to you about it?
No, he never has, I say. I kind of suspected he wasn’t there, but I wasn’t sure. Well, I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you what time I’m coming out. Is that okay? I’ve always been curious to see New Bedford.
Curious to see New Bedford? That’s a surprise. It’s not like you’ve made any big effort to come here. But it’s a fascinating little city, Frank. America’s number one commercial seafood port, did you know that? I have a friend who says it’s like a border town, except the border is the Atlantic Ocean instead of Mexico.
The air smells so strong of codfish
it makes one’s nose run and one’s eyes water.
Crossing the Public Garden in this cold just darkening, something of a tropical smell of cooking fire and effulgent damp turned frigid in the air. I can’t believe I never knew until yesterday about Memo not coming to the wedding; it was never mentioned by anyone in the family, at least not in front me. I never knew that my mother was pregnant with me when she sat for her famous painting, either, or that Herb was gay. Felman was his last name. It’s like watching a foreign-language movie without subtitles, being in my family. Flakes of snow like darting ice fleas. That first winter in New York, when I hadn’t gone back to Broener—but no, maybe it was the second winter—I heard John Cheever read a short story that ended right around here, in the Back Bay, the narrator climbing up on a statue, taking off his hat, and putting it on the statue’s head. The reading was at the Ninety-Second Street Y, Cheever’s polished, somewhat hoarse voice, the flushed glow of his forehead. I heard Robert Lowell read at St. Mark’s in the Bowery, Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso were there, too, that night, and the historic old church was packed. That rowdy, mostly young Lower East Side bohemian and punk crowd was taunting and shouting Lowell down as he tried to read his poems, and Ginsberg came onstage to scold them, indignant over how rudely they were treating his friend, a great poet, personally invited by him to give a reading there in the equivalent of Ginsberg’s home arena. Was it just because Lowell, with his swept-back, long, white hair, was so WASP patrician and spoke in that same John Cheever, Boston Banana Brahmin voice? “Again and then again the year is born … To ice and death.” True, not very beat or punk, more heavy metal or Jethro Tull, though that line was followed by a verse about spying through an icy window on a girl playing her French horn. Also, I heard Elisabeth Bishop read at the Guggenheim, a much more polite crowd, though I’m sure genuinely scintillated; don’t think she read “At the Fishhouses”; wouldn’t I remember if she had? Haven’t been to a single poetry reading since moving back to New York. It’s sad how you allow once pure or youthful enthusiasms to dim, but this is one I have it in my power to revive. Go to some poetry readings, Frankie Gee.
All over Guatemala, in the space of a small number of years, tens of thousands of still-young bodies were buried and hidden under the earth, the murdered young, firm supple arms embracing death and dirt for their long journeys to bone; plenty of others murdered, too, from infant to old, but mostly it was the murdered young. After the war, forensic anthropologists would spend years digging for their remains; they still are to this day. Of course, Penny and I were going around inside young bodies too. That line from the Iliad, “Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed.” I spent long periods enthralled by that darkness, perambulating through the invisible murder clouds drifting over the sidewalks all over Guatemala City, thinking I was living close to an eternal truth. It wasn’t until I was back there a decade later, beginning to look into the bishop’s murder and finding the city still so terrifying and haunted, that I realized that I’d missed it, that sense of vulnerability that also makes you feel young, as if allowing you to watch yourself through the eyes of parents helpless to prevent what’s coming. It’s fucked up. Nobody should go near any war or killing zone if they can help it; on the other hand, you really can’t learn such lessons about human insanity and depravity without being there yourself. Now Cara de Culo sends his emissaries all the way up here to wait in a parking lot outside a supermarket in order to threaten to turn
poor Zoila and her relatives into invisible murder clouds; they come with visas, welcome, enjoy your stay.
This comes back to me now, too, from a couple of months ago, when I was reporting that story on the Abuelas de la Plaza de Mayo and their search for the children of their own disappeared sons and daughters. Most of those young mothers were already pregnant when they were abducted; some were impregnated in the Argentine military’s clandestine prisons, mostly by jailors and torturers who raped them. Born in the secret birthing wards of military hospitals, weaned after a few days from mothers who would soon be put aboard death flights, those stolen infants were almost never, as they grew up, told the truth about their origins by their adoptive parents. So far, nearly a hundred of those offspring have been found and united with their grandmothers. I interviewed several, in their twenties now, and was so struck by how they idealized their true mothers and fathers, whose very existence until recently they’d been oblivious of. Though some claimed to have intuited it, to have experienced confusing sensations they interpret now as signs of mystical communion with their biological parents, with their mothers especially. A young man, sensitive and musical, now a composer, told me that he’d never understood how he could have come from parents so unlike himself, so dull and melancholy, as well as suspiciously elderly, and who’d raised him in what was then an ordinary lower-middle-class Buenos Aires neighborhood that was now a trendy one; that young man used to go on long bicycle rides far out into the industrial suburbs, compulsively returning to the same neighborhood in the same boring, ugly little suburb, even telling his baffled friends that he wanted to buy a house of his own and live out there, where no one in their right mind would want to live if they didn’t have to. He couldn’t really say why he wanted to live there, but he knew he wanted to. Only after he was found by the Abuelas did he learn that that marginal neighborhood, on a street lined with bleak little homes he’d slowly pedaled his bicycle down many times, had been the location of the Montonero safehouse his parents had been seized from; his father had been a guitarist, his already-pregnant mother played accordion and bandoneon. Whenever he saw a mother cuddling her child or a father playing with his baby son or daughter in a park, he told me, he cried or felt like crying, for them and for himself, for what had been lost and just over the beauty of seeing loving young parents with their children.
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