Grace heard her husband into the night, through the thin walls, murmuring repeatedly to himself with a chant-like rhythm. She did not need to hear every word to know what he was saying.
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me… Even though I walk through the valley of the…”
*****
Grace found her seven-year-old son playing alone in the backyard. Gazing through the kitchen window of the dilapidated house, she nervously wrung her hands. When I touch the door, he will know his father sent me, she told herself. He will know he’s in trouble again. Why must I always be the one to deliver bad news?
With her face cradled in her palms, she muffled her sobs. Any sound made in the kitchen telegraphed through paper-thin walls to the Reverend’s study. How many times can I do this before my own son will come to hate me? Grace willed her tears to stop. She wished their family could be different, that father and son could get along.
Mesmerized by the innocent child, she stalled, suffering an eternity of moments. Everyone says he is such a handsome boy. If they only knew how much he looks like his father, they would understand. He’s going to be such a heartbreaker. She admired his big brown eyes, long eyelashes, and thick hair. She sighed. He would make a beautiful girl. The idea made her shiver with regret.
Should I have been a stronger disciplinarian when he started Kindergarten? She questioned herself. I could have done a better job of helping him to learn to play with other children. If I had taught him to socialize, he would have no reason to rebel. If I had just stood between my boy and the Reverend, I could have been strict and still treated him fairly. It’s so difficult for a minister’s son; everyone expects him to be perfect. If I had not allowed his father to demand so much of him, make him into something he’s not, things could be better. Grace let out a deep breath; she could delay her assignment no longer.
*****
When the rusty hinges of the wooden screen-door cried out, James David lifted his eyes from his toy. His face filled with dread. He knew her look; he knew why she had come. I wonder what I did this time.
“Your father would like to speak with you.” He had heard the same submissive tones a thousand times. She spoke in the same manner to the Reverend. She nervously wrung her hands never looking at his face.
Without uttering a word, James walked past his mother. He knew his father was in his sanctuary, waiting. He reluctantly entered and took his place, at attention, in front of the old oak desk. He knew his father’s expectations as he knew every object in the room. The study had once been a bedroom exactly like his. The closet was directly behind him; there was a small television hidden inside. He heard the news commentator’s scripted speech sift through the walls every night at six-o’clock.
What did I do this time? He wondered again.
With his head down, the Reverend worked silently at his desk. Handwritten pages, along with two open Bibles, covered the desktop,
He’s watching me. James’s mind raced. He enjoys making me wait. He loves this shit, making me suffer… He was careful not to waver. If I move, it’ll set him off… James held his arms at his sides, hands wide open, and palms pressed against thighs. A fist would provoke his father.
He stared straight ahead. I wonder where the old man got all these Bibles. Why would anyone collect Bibles? Hell, I don’t wanna read one. The timeworn books, drenched in natural light, which poured in through curtain-less windows, perched on homemade shelves. The room was the same as all the other studies, in all the parsonages, in all the towns.
Many times, James had overheard his parents talking about the moves. His father often blamed him. However, he had also heard his mother say, sometimes the congregation, or the Bishop, requested they move. Me, thrown out of school might have caused some of the moves, he admitted. There’ll come a day when I can really do whatever I want; there won’t be any fuckin’ Bibles in my house. There won’t be a study, rug rats, or rules. Shit, I’ll do whatever I want when I…
“James David,” the old man raised his eyes from his work and focused on his young son. “Your mother and I are very disappointed…” It always began the same.
*****
Grace slipped noiselessly into her sleeping son’s room. She ran her fingers adoringly through his hair, and gently touched James David’s tranquil, innocent face. “David,” she whispered, awash in remorse. The boy-child sleeping before her was the embodiment of lost love, her final chance at happiness, a symbol of purloined joy. In him, she saw the mischievous smile of her husband’s only brother.
She closed her eyes; from the deepest recesses of her mind, she heard David laugh, a joyful, uninhibited laugh. Grace knew a side of her brother-in-law that no one else knew, not even the Reverend. David was sweet, docile, and hard to anger. He loved his older brother, and continuously tried to convince him that their differences did not matter. His calm voice was clear in her mind as though he was in the room.
Dear brother, please don’t be so angry with me. Just because I’ve chosen a life different from yours, doesn’t mean it’s wrong.
Your life isn’t just different from mine, David, it’s unacceptable. How can you possibly think that living like a gypsy, riding that motorcycle, drinking, and running with harlots is anything other than evil?
John, I understand how you might interpret my life as sinful. You give me too much credit for total debauchery. I’m not a minister, but that doesn’t mean my life is wrong. I’m living my life; doing what I want. I’m sorry you don’t approve. Nevertheless, I love you.
You, who loves the dark side of the world, love me. With every word, the Reverend became angrier. You have chosen to live as a pagan in total opposition to Jesus’ teaching… You come into our home, tell your stories, and distract my wife from her duties to the church and me. You encourage her to comb out her hair and wear curls. You’re not satisfied with wasting your own life. You want to take us with you, and I will not allow that.
David cowered and withdrew. It broke Grace’s heart to watch. David had often said that all he really wanted was his brother’s blessing.
David, leave this house and never return. Never again, call me brother. To me you are dead. He threw open the front door, and stepped aside.
Without a word, David walked past his older brother and into the street. The Reverend pivoted and slammed the door. With both hands, he grasped his collar. The sound of tearing fabric ripped deep into Grace’s heart.
Dead to me, dead to me… he repeated as he walked to his study.
Eight months later, at the age of twenty-two years, David died in an accident. One month after that, James David Jones was born.
Grace gazed, once more, at her still sleeping son. She ran her fingers through his hair. He stirred and licked his lips. “Shh, shh, shh,” she whispered, “go back to sleep, my darling, and dream wonderful dreams.” She tenderly kissed his cheek, and silently slipped into the hall.
*****
Guadalupe del Rio moved from St. Louis to Los Angeles sometime before her baby girl was six months old.
Star knew two versions of her mother’s story. One, the woman had told hundreds of times. It always ended with Guadalupe blaming Star for everything that had gone wrong in her life. The other variation, she heard from Lupe’s limited friends. Star was sure there was some truth in the stories. She also knew the sometimes distorted recounting came from too much cocaine, self-loathing, and a desire to be something she was not.
“You’re the reason,” Lupe would often scream, “I’m a whore! Before you come, I have mis sueños, me dreams, I have me man.”
It was always the same old song, “¡Que la canción!” Star would shout back at her ridiculous bitch of a mother.
Sober or high, Lupe always repeated the essential facts of the story the same, word for word. The tall, thin, powerful man, whom Lupe consistently described, was the love of her life. He was the father of an unborn c
hild, but not a husband when he died on a motorcycle and left Lupe to fend for herself.
Guadalupe was born in the Republic of Mexico, the State of Jalisco, the daughter of campesinos, migrant farmers. She was thirteen when they crossed the Rio Grande with all their possessions on their backs. They were twenty-seven Mexicans in all, including her parents and siblings.
Before they left Mexico, they spent many nights around the campfire eating tacos of rice and beans while listening to Lupe’s father retell the numerous stories of Los Estados Unidos y las calles de oro, the United States and the, so-called, streets of gold.
There were no streets of gold, and in the end, they all lived in a cramped, drafty apartment in East St. Louis, Illinois. The family slept shoulder-to-shoulder in one shabby room; it was bitterly cold in the winter and blazing hot in the summer.
They nearly starved before Lupe’s father found a job, as a barge hand, hauling coal on the Mississippi. Fortunately, for the hungry children at home, there were tasks on the boat that no legal worker was willing to do. He lived and worked on the boat for thirty days, then spent an equal number of days at home. When papa was home, the family ate in restaurants and lived like kings. The Talavera bowl, which sat in the center of the kitchen table, brimmed full with rich Mexican chocolate. When he was gone, they made broth from boiled meat scraps and begged in the streets. The Talavera bowl sat empty.
Lupe was eighteen when her dream came true. She met her green-eyed American, and they fell in love. She was proud that she was a virgin when he first lay with her. As she felt him fill her, she prayed to her tocaya, her namesake the virgin Guadalupe, for the warmth to bring a baby.
“Me seesters told me…” This part of the narrative always angered Star. If she can’t blame me, Star thought, forced to rehear the saga, she has to blame her sisters or my grandparents. “…if I had a baby, it would be American, and me too. A baby would be good, but hijo de puta. I got you and lost me man. It’s your fault. You didn’t make me American; you made me whore.”
Lupe never actually told Star that at one time, in the first few months, there was money in her purse. Star learned this from others.
Once, when Estrella was thirteen, she found a bill-of-sale for a car. Lupe had purchased it when Estrella was only seven months old. It was nearly new, and cash was paid. A year after she found the receipt, drawing upon Star’s courage, Estrella confronted Lupe, who was high on cocaine. Brandishing the scrap of paper, she demanded to know what it meant. “Momma, did we have money? Where did you get it; what did you do with it?”
The woman’s swollen pupils floated in languid pools of red. “None o’ you fuckin’ business, I got paid for what I not say.”
People laughed at Lupe’s accent and her grammar; she blamed Star. Because she had a baby, Lupe could not get a job. They moved often because no one wanted a child around. When the money ran out, Lupe’s only option was prostitution; Star was to blame. Everything was Star’s fault.
For as long as Estrella could remember, up until the time that she began to earn money, she slept in Lupe’s closet. Night after night, she lay in the cloistered, dark space listening to some smelly stranger, grunting and sweating, on top of her mother.
Estrella was her Mexican name, and she hated it. Guadalupe was her Mexican mother, and she despised her. Somewhere in Missouri, a green-eyed American was rotting in a grave; he was her father. Without even knowing his name, she loathed him. Estrella was the only daughter of a cheap, drunken whore and a dead man.
*****
In a barrio of East Los Angeles, Guadalupe enrolled six-year-old Estrella in school.
Estrella loved the time away from her mother. Although shy around the other children, she was a good student and a fast learner. At home, her mother forced her to set aside her situational shyness and learn other lessons like panhandling and grifting. Most importantly, Lupe taught her: “Men are the enemy; they have money in their pockets.” Her mother relentlessly repeated, “It’s our job to get their money, all of it.”
*****
When James David was eight years old, he walked home from school one Friday afternoon right past a house where he had lately seen a young girl playing with her puppy. As he passed the house, he saw the yellow puppy alone in the yard. He did not know why, but he wanted the puppy.
Looking in both directions to make sure no one was watching, James David lifted the latch, pushed open the gate, and softly called, “Here, boy. Here, boy. Com’ere, boy.” The dog ran to open arms. James stuffed the puppy into his coat and ran home. He hid his prize in his fort in the backyard.
*****
On Saturday at noon, a knock came at the front door. James peeked out of his bedroom as he heard his father cross through the living room.
At the front entrance, there stood a tall man and the girl who owned the puppy. Tears stained the girl’s cheeks.
“Sorry to bother you, Reverend,” the man said in a deep voice, “my daughter and I have been canvassing the neighborhood looking for a small, yellow puppy. You haven’t seen one runnin’ around, have you?”
“James David,” the Reverend Jones called.
Moving slowly down the hallway, James David kept his eye on the girl. He stood back a little ways from his father and waited.
“James David,” his father asked in a typically severe tone, “this little girl has lost her yellow puppy. Have you seen it?”
“No, father, I haven’t seen any dogs.” A cold shiver ran up James’s spine. He leaned against the doorframe, stared at the girl’s shoes, and supported his overly warm face against the back of his hand. The smell of the dog, still on his skin, was strong.
“James David Jones,” the Reverend’s voice grew increasingly harsher with every word. His face reddened, “Tell me the truth. Where is this girl’s dog? Tell me what you know, or God help me, I’ll beat you within an inch of your life. For the love of all that’s precious, boy, speak!”
James lifted his eyes warily and looked at the man and the girl standing uncomfortably on the steps. The girl was sobbing; he saw a look of horror on her father’s face.
“He’s out back,” James whispered. The Reverend did not hesitate. James felt his vice-like grip on his bicep. He grimaced as the pain shot through his muscles. The scene around him began to swim as he felt himself being half carried, suspended by only his right arm, half dragged toward the back door. The man and the girl followed at a safe distance.
*****
“Show us,” the Reverend ordered. He released his grip on James David’s arm. His hand felt hot; his heart pounded in his fingertips. A desire to strike the boy flooded over him. The Reverend glanced at the two strangers, standing on his back steps, and he struggled not to embarrass himself anymore than his son already had.
James David retrieved the puppy from its box inside his fort, and handed it to his father.
Reverend Jones forced himself to take the puppy, and immediately returned it to its owner’s arms.
He turned to the man. “Sir,” he could feel his voice quiver, “I am very sorry for any inconvenience my son has caused you. I assure you he will be dealt with; this will not happen again.” The Reverend felt his composure rapidly slipping away.
“James David,” he clenched his fists as he spoke, “you owe these people an apology and a commitment of penance.” He looked hard into his son’s face. The boy stood unmoving, his eyes trancelike. The Reverend saw no sign of emotion in the grim countenance. “James David, atone for your sins; tell these people you’re sorry. Now, James David, right now. I command you!”
Finally, James David began to speak, but his were not the words of an eight-year-old. “You say that God’s creatures are not chattel,” he calmly began.
A familiar discomfort swept over the Reverend. He had felt this way many times before when he read of the crucifixion of the Christ.
James David continued; his voice seemed devoid of feeling. “You teach us that we are a brotherhood, equal and sharing, in the eyes of G
od. I have as much right to that dog as anyone.”
The Reverend was dumbstruck. This is not right, he thought. This boy cannot use my teachings and my example against me. Desperate to save face, he searched his mind for a scripture with which to respond.
“Very well, young man,” the words came slowly at first, “remember King Solomon. He faced a similar situation with two mothers fighting over the same child: And the King said, ‘Divide the living child in two, and give half to the one, and half to the other.’ Is that your wish, James? Shall we cut this innocent dog in two?” The Reverend glared at his son, ignoring the neighbors. The daughter hung from her father’s arm sobbing uncontrollably.
“Enough, I’ve seen and heard enough,” the other man yelled. He stuffed the puppy under one arm, took his daughter’s hand, and rushed away.
Reverend Jones left his son alone in the yard, and hastily retreated to his study.
Within the hour, he dispatched Mrs. Jones with a summons for her son. He left James David to stand at attention, for more than an hour, while he tried to unravel the lines of meaningless words in the Bible on his desk. Seething, he studied the pages, careful not to look at the boy.
Finally, overcome with rage, he abruptly stood. The reluctant wheels of the old desk chair squealed in protest against the wooden floor. The chair slammed into the wall. The Reverend removed his belt. He searched James David’s face and found no remorse. The boy’s big brown eyes were empty.
He lashed the boy, repeatedly, until his heart ached more than his arm. “Now,” the Reverend’s words were grim and flat, “James David, you will remain here, and repeat this scripture one hundred times.” He took an open Bible from the desk and handed it to the child.
James David wept as he read the words. “And the King said, ‘Divide the living child in two…”
Dark Star Page 2