Burro Genius

by Victor Villaseñor

  “Mundo!” he called. “How did you get over there?”

  I turned around in my saddle and saw my brother had come down the inner side of the last little waterway which I’d crossed about fifty yards back, and now he couldn’t get to the flat where I was.

  “You can’t cross there!” I yelled back at him. We were about forty yards apart. “The water is too muddy and deep! You’ll have to go back and cross where I crossed!” I continued yelling.

  “Where is that?”

  “Way back there!” I shouted, pointing.

  He turned Midnight Duke around and started back up the valley. I didn’t turn my horse to go and help him. I was watching the profusion of wildlife down here at the west end of our rancho grande. My God, I’d never realized there were all these little fish in these waterways down here, close to the sea. I wondered if the bigger fish came in with the high tide and ate these little fish.

  “Do I cross here?” shouted my brother.

  I turned and looked, and I saw that José was facing a big clump of thick marsh grass, and so yes, it could be safe to cross, but on the other hand, it could be one of those bottomless breaks that was just all covered up with grasses.

  “Yes, I think so!” I yelled back at him.

  Then I saw Midnight Duke gather his feet under himself as my brother reined him towards the clump of grass. Instantly, I knew that I was totally wrong and this was a dangerous place to cross, and Duke knew it, too, and so this was why the big black gelding was gathering up his hooves to leap.

  My big brother didn’t seem to realize why the horse was gathering his feet under himself, so I screamed, “NO! DON’T DO IT THERE!” but it was too late, and Duke leaped like a great black panther, trying to do what he was being asked to do.

  My brother, not expecting this, terrific leap, was jerked back in the saddle. I saw his whole face go white with pain. He hadn’t moved forward to help the horse with his leap so Duke didn’t make it across the over grown, invisible waterway, and his hind legs went down into the hole of muck and water.

  My brother was fighting with all his strength to stay in the saddle. The horse was now leaping and lunging, trying to get his hind quarters out of the ditch. The clump of grass was being trashed down into the hole. Finally, with heroic strength, Duke and my brother made it to good solid ground.

  All this had taken just seconds. And by this time, I’d raced my own horse across the flat and I was at my brother’s side, I could see that Joseph’s eyes were welling up with tears. He was in so much pain that he couldn’t even speak.

  “I’M SORRY!” I said. “OH, MY GOD, I’M SORRY! I’ll get you home!”

  It seemed to take us forever to make it back home. He couldn’t run his horse. It hurt him too much. And he didn’t want me to run ahead and get help, because he didn’t know his way around the marshes. I felt like such a damn fool! If only I’d waited for my brother, staying by his side. I’d been a stupid, selfish asshole!

  As soon as we got home, my brother was put to bed and Dr. Pace was called. When Dr. Pace arrived, he asked my brother what had happened.

  “I told you not to exert yourself,” he added.

  “It’s not his fault,” I said to the doctor. “I was the one who knew the trail.”

  “It’s nobody’s fault,” said my brother. “My horse just got stuck in the marsh and began lunging. It was all I could do to just stay in the saddle,” he said, trying to laugh like a real cowboy.

  Dr. Pace, having been raised on a ranch in Arizona, laughed and continued examining him. “If you don’t feel the pain subside by morning,” he said, “we’ll have to take you back to Scripps.”

  I ran out of the room feeling terrible, and that night my mother didn’t have to ask me to join her at her little altar to pray with her. I knew that it was all my fault that my brother Joseph was hurting. I prayed and prayed that night as I’d never prayed before, but it didn’t help. In the morning, my brother Joseph was still in so much pain that they had to rush him to the hospital. And all that day at school, I felt so terrible that it was hard for me to hear anything the teacher was saying.

  She was a substitute teacher. We were told our regular teacher was sick. It was in the late afternoon when this teacher looked down her sheet and called my name to stand up and read. I didn’t hear her—I was so busy drawing stars.

  “Young man,” she said to me, coming down the aisle between the seats, “I see that you haven’t read in some time. I’d like you to now stand up and read for me.”

  I glanced around. Everyone was staring at me. My heart started pounding a million miles an hour. “No,” I finally said.

  She looked at me. She was shocked. She was a lot younger than our regular teacher. “What did you say to me?” asked the woman teacher.

  The whole room was silent, wanting to see what I’d say or do next. None of these kids were really my friends. They were all a whole year younger than me. “I said, no,” I said.

  “You said no to me?” she said, starting to breathe faster.

  “Yes, I said no to you,” I said.

  “Well, we’ll see about that!” she said, grabbing me by the ear to pull me out of my chair. “You will stand up and read when I call on you!”

  Some of the kids started laughing. Others began making catcalls. She was strong and pulled me out of my chair, no matter how much I held on to my desk. Then she put my book in my hands.

  She turned my book to the right page. “Read!” she commanded.

  My eyes were crying and all the kids were watching me. I couldn’t make heads or tails of all the words on the page that just kept jumping and running all over the place. She slapped me on the head.

  “Pay attention, and start reading!” she said once again.

  Still I couldn’t read, and when she went to slap me again, this time, I don’t know why, but I’d had enough. So I dropped the book and whirled about and grabbed her hand. Growling like a dog, I bit her as hard as I could.

  She screamed out in pain! I loved it! And I bolted out of the classroom, running as fast as I could. I was going to get on my bike and pedal home and never come back to school ever again! I’d take my dad’s .38 Special and my BB gun and get my horse and really run away this time.

  But I never made it to the bicycle rack, which was under the pepper trees. Before I could, the playground teacher caught me. He was a big man and he grabbed me, twisted both of my arms behind my back, and marched me to the principal’s office. In the office was the substitute teacher, holding her hand and telling the principal that I bit her like a rabid animal. I thought she said “rabbit” and started laughing, because I’d bit her a whole lot harder than rabbits can bite. The principal didn’t think it was funny so he and the man, who’d brought me, held me by my arms, as the substitute teacher slapped me again and again, calling me names. My eyes cried and cried, but I swear, that I didn’t cry inside of me. No, I took my punishment just like Ramón…and yes, Jesus had done, never saying a word.

  Getting home that afternoon, I didn’t know what to do. I still felt like running away. But another part of me felt like getting my father’s .38 Special and a couple of sticks of dynamite and going back to school and shooting all the kids who’d laughed at me, and then blow that damn principal and substitute teacher to smithereens. Especially that playground man who’d twisted my arms until I thought he’d broken them. But before I could decide what to do, run away or go to school, my parents told me to get in the car with them, that we were all going to go to downtown Oceanside to see the priest about having some masses said for my brother.

  Getting to Saint Mary’s Star of the Sea in downtown Oceanside was really strange. I’d never been inside of a church except on Sundays, when it was full of hundreds of people. Going inside, I dipped my fingertips into the holy water at the entrance, made the sign of the cross over myself as I’d’ been taught to do, and followed my parents down the left side aisle towards the apse. The main aisle at the middle of the church was only fo
r weddings, funerals, or show-offs, I’d always been told.

  A tall priest was waiting for my parents near a picture of the Holy Virgin. He greeted my mother and father by their first names, then he suggested that my little sister and I stay out here and my parents go into the back room to confer with him alone. My mother asked me and my little sister if we’d be all right. We both said yes, and sat down in a pew and watched our father and mother disappear into the back of the church along with the priest.

  The inside of the church was real cool and semidark and smelled kind of good, in a funny way. Glancing around, I realized this church was really tall and long and beautiful. When we came here to mass on Sundays, we weren’t ever allowed to just look around. No, we had to keep our eyes on the priest at all times and pretend we were really paying attention to all the stuff that he kept saying and saying. It was so boring.

  This time, glancing around, I could see that the sunlight streaming in through the windows made long, golden columns of light across the inside of the church. These columns looked so beautiful. They kind of reminded me of the sunlight that I’d seen coming down through that Golden Eye that I’d dreamed about when I’d been traveling through the Heavens. I sat there with my little sister in our pew and the silence was so peaceful that suddenly, just like that, I began to feel that humming begin behind my left ear once again.

  I smiled. Maybe Papito Dios still loved me. Maybe God hadn’t left me even after what I’d done to my brother. Tears came to my eyes. Maybe my dad was right and God didn’t want revenge and to always be punishing us. Maybe Papito really was Amor, and the problema was just us, ourselves, since we’d lost the Garden, kept punishing and fighting with each other.

  I glanced at my little sister Linda and saw that she’d stretched out on the pew beside me and she’d gone to sleep. I sat there glancing all around at the tall, magnificent church—the beautifully carved beams, the gorgeous stained-glass windows—and the humming behind my left ear grew and grew.

  I wiped the tears from my eyes, and I was now kind of glad that I hadn’t gone back to school and killed all those people. After all, a good man always ate what he killed, and I couldn’t have cooked up and eaten all those kids and the principal and that substitute teacher. I laughed. This was really funny. I would have had to dig a big hole and make a huge fire to barbecue that many people.

  I was laughing and glancing around when I suddenly noticed all these stars all over the church—in the wood, the pictures, the glass windows, and even up on the altar on the clothing of Jesus and Mary and Joseph. Stars were everywhere, and they were all smiling.

  Suddenly, I knew here in my heart that God had forgiven me. “Thank You, Papito,” I said, making the sign of the cross over myself. “Thank You, very much.”

  I guess that I, too, must’ve gone to sleep, because when my parents came out and woke my sister and me up, I’d been gone for a long time, laughing and dancing through the Heavens with Sam and my two mamagrandes!

  As we left the church, our parents decided that we’d go out for Chinese food. We drove in our car one block west and half a block south, next to the movie theater. Archie and our tía Tota met us at the restaurant. Archie was loud and happy, telling my parents that everything was going to work out, not to worry, that Joseph was going to be fine, that he and George Lopez had gone down to Scripps today and donated blood for him. Hearing this, I could tell that my father and mother felt a lot better, until our tía Tota opened her mouth and said, “This is why I never had any kids! I just can’t stand all the suffering that I’ve seen my sisters go through, first at birth and then when one of their children dies.”

  “Our son isn’t dying!” said my dad, coming out of his chair.

  “Salvador,” said our mother, grabbing hold of him. “She really didn’t mean it that way. You know how Carlota just talks.”

  “It’s not just talk,” said our tía. “It’s the—”

  “Here, have a shrimp!” said Archie, shoving a great big shrimp into our tía’s open mouth, shell and all.

  “Archie!” she yelled, gasping. “You know I hate fish!”

  My father burst out laughing.

  “Shrimp ain’t fish,” said Archie. “Just eat and shut up!”

  “It tastes awful! Worse than lobster!” yelled our tía.

  “Have another!” said Archie, going to put another shrimp into her open mouth.

  “Don’t be putting things into my mouth!” yelled our aunt.

  Laughing, feeling much better, my dad now reached across the table to take my rice, which I’d been saving for last.

  “NO!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “That’s my dessert!”

  Everyone in the restaurant turned to look at us. My dad put my rice back down, looking very sheepish. “I thought you didn’t want it,” he said.

  “It’s my favorite,” I said. “That’s why I was saving it for last!”

  “This kid is definitely weird,” said Archie. “I always eat my favorite things first. Eh, honey baby?” he said to our tía Tota, pinching her.

  When we left the restaurant it was already dark. We were all very happy. My father couldn’t stop laughing. “Did you see how everyone looked at me when he screamed about his rice?” he said. “I bet that they were saying, look at that dirty old man, stealing the food from that little kid.”

  “Yeah,” said Archie, “this one has been a hell-raiser ever since he was born. I’ll never forget when he pissed on you, Sal, and he was still in diapers!”

  This story I’d been hearing for as long as I could remember. It had happened back in the barrio de Carlos Malo, when my dad had been building a doghouse for my dog Sam and I’d wanted to help, so I took my dad’s hammer and started hitting on boards, too. My dad couldn’t find his hammer, so when he saw me with it across the yard, he called me a cerotito, meaning little turd, and he came across the yard, took the hammer away from me, and playfully whacked me on the butt.

  I remember very well that I’d gotten mad and come over and grabbed the hammer away from him, calling him a little turd in Spanish, too, as best I could. And he said, “You don’t talk to your father like that,” and he really whacked me good this time.

  The rest of the day I’d stalked my dad, just like our cat stalks a mouse. I’d followed him around all afternoon. And when he finally went inside to take a nap before going to his second shift at the poolhall next door, I sneaked in, climbed up on the coffee table, pulled my diaper down, pissed all over him as he slept, getting my golden stream of urine to go into his open, snoring mouth. When he sat up coughing and gagging and spitting, I took off out the back door and got under the house with my dog Sam.

  And no matter how much my dad yelled at me to come out from under the house so he could whip me, I refused. Finally, he had to go to work, and at the poolhall, he told everyone how I’d pissed on him. I became the hit of the barrio, the only person who’d pissed on Salvador and gotten away with it.

  Late that night, Uncle Archie had come over all the way from Oceanside, just to find out if the story was true. My dad had gone next door and taken me out of bed where I was sleeping with my mother. He brought me back to the poolhall where he put me on top of the bar top to show everyone how I’d pissed on him. I refused, feeling all embarrassed, but my dad had then pulled my pants down, completely exposing me to everyone, so in anger I pissed on him again. My dad went wild, wanting to really hit me good, but Archie pulled my dad off of me, telling him that this was the greatest thing he’d ever seen, because, if the truth be known, there wasn’t a man alive who hadn’t dreamed of pissing on his old man!

  That night in the poolhall, my uncle Archie had hugged me close, laughing and laughing, and gave me a silver dollar—that I still have—and told my dad that he’d arrest his ass if he ever heard that he’d laid one hand on me for pissing on him.

  And now this night in front of the Chinese restaurant, I saw Uncle Archie take my father in his great big arms and give him a strong abrazo, chest to che
st.

  “We’ve been through so much, amigo,” Archie told my dad, “Probation, jail, bullets, and we’ll get through this one, too. Look, I got an idea,” added Archie. “Why don’t you and Lupe come with me and Carlota to Las Vegas. We’re going to see a few shows and do a little gambling. Hell, you’ve done all you can. You’ve seen the priest, paid for some masses for Joseph, and you got the blood that you needed from me and George. Come on, you and Lupe need to get out of town and breathe a little.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” said my dad, “and we’ll take George and his wife, Vera, too.”

  “Who’s paying?” asked Archie.

  “Hell, I’ll pay,” said my dad. “Good God, Archie, all my life my biggest problem was to get enough money so I could just eat and keep the wolves away. Now Lupe and me got more money than we’ll ever need, and good God, I still got problemas. Maybe even the most painful that I’ve ever had. Joseph, he’s such a good, decent young man a las todas, and he’s suffering so much, damnit!”

  My dad had tears running down his face. “Yep,” said Uncle Archie, “we get out of one frying pan of trouble only to find ourselves in another pan that’s even hotter.”

  Our parents were off to Las Vegas less than an hour when my sister Tencha and her girlfriends decided to throw a big party. But they hadn’t gotten permission from our parents, so they had to swear everyone to secrecy. My brother Joseph was home once again, looking pretty good after the transfusions of blood he’d received. Our big, handsome cousin Chemo, who was more or less my sister Tencha’s age, was visiting. He was our tía Maria’s son, and tía Maria was the older sister of my mother and tía Tota. Chemo was a senior in high school and a local football hero. He told my sister Tencha and her girlfriends that if they supplied the girls, he’d supply the guys. My brother Joseph wasn’t saying anything. He was just lying down in a lounge chair in the front patio, taking it really easy, like he’d been told.