Let Their Spirits Dance

by Stella Pope Duarte

  Tommy and Manuel, the only boys in the choir, looked like caricatures of grown men, dripping sweat after a hard day’s work in the sun. Beads of sweat outlined Manuel’s upper lip and mustache. I knew Manuel was there only because I was, and Tommy was there for Espi. Every few weeks, Tommy’s face erupted with pimples. I told her he probably used rubbing alcohol to dry up his pimples. Espi didn’t have much choice when it came to boyfriends. After she gained weight, Tommy was the only boy who really looked at her.

  Manuel was taking classes at Phoenix College, where Jesse had been attending until he quit and made himself an open target for the draft. Manuel wasn’t an altar boy anymore, except on special occasions when he joined the priest during High Mass at Easter. Manuel wore black horn-rimmed glasses. Sometimes light from the lamp reflected over one or both lenses, making Manuel’s pupils disappear. He stared at me and smiled, and all I could see were two tiny spotlights for eyes. Manuel reminded me of a railroad man who waves at you and smiles when the train is rolling by, but never gives you a chance to take a good look at him. I never really looked at Manuel until that day, then it was all I could ever do to forget him.

  That Saturday afternoon I was singing, but I was really waiting. It started then, and it hasn’t ended yet. I’m still waiting. Back then, I was waiting for my mother to release the first vowel of “Bendito” into the empty church before all the statues and stained-glass saints. Everything stayed in my mind, a photograph I’ve carried in my soul; the heat and darkness of the church, my mother in her navy blue dress, facing the altar, Yolanda swaying over the keyboard, the light from the lamp holding us tight, and my mother’s voice exploding on the first note of “Bendito,” hushing the pigeons cooing under the eaves of the rooftop. Her voice was so beautiful, I swallowed hard and listened.

  Bendito, bendito, bendito sea Dios

  los angeles cantan y alaban a Dios

  los angeles cantan y alaban a Dios.

  Blessed, blessed, blessed be God

  angels are singing and praising God

  angels are singing and praising God.

  This was the chorus. We sang it together. My mother sang the verses by herself. I was feeling a rush of pride, because my mother was a soloist for the church, but her voice was really mine. Mine when she sang in the kitchen, mine when she sang soft little lullabies nights I couldn’t sleep. In the dim church, her voice searched out God’s ear, yet something was crouching low, waiting to pounce like a jaguar snarling. I could sense it moving in the shadows. A chill went up and down my arms.

  We knew Jesse’s company had been ambushed. We had received the news on Tuesday in a telegram an Army representative brought over to the house. They called to make it clear Jesse was still alive, maybe wounded, but still alive. Nothing more had been sent, nothing. The information stopped abruptly. We called the office in Phoenix, no, nothing else from Vietnam. The veladoras at home flickered on the big oak dresser before El Santo Niño de Atocha and La Virgen de Guadalupe, waiting for Jesse to come home. El Santo Niño was known to walk from place to place in his little brown sandals performing miracles for the faithful. Sometimes people left tiny shoes for Him to wear to replace the ones worn out by His travels. My mother believed He could bring Jesse back. Bring our Jesse back from the other side of the world. Use your power to keep him safe. Keep him alive, Santo Niño. We didn’t want to say “Don’t let him die!” out loud, so we secretly shouted it in our minds, in our hearts.

  The Vietcong had struck in all the major cities in Vietnam during the Tet offensive. Jesse’s company, part of the 1st Infantry Division, was stationed outside Saigon at Bien Hoa. The news on TV was filled with pictures of wounded American soldiers. Magazines and newspapers were filled with photos of Vietnamese villages burning and children napalmed by American troops. I reached for Espi’s hand and squeezed it hard. She shook it out. “What’s wrong with you?” She looked at me, angry that I had caused her pain. I looked down at the altar and wondered why I had hurt her. “Sorry,” I said. She turned away.

  My mother’s voice led the first verse of the song. Warmth exploded inside me. Her voice searched for me in the dark, making vibrations erupt between my shoulder blades and travel down my arms.

  Yo creo dios mio que estás en el altar

  oculto en la hostia te vengo adorar

  oculto en la hostia te vengo adorar.

  I believe my God that at the altar you reside

  in the host you are concealed, I come to worship you

  in the host you are concealed, I come to worship you.

  Yes, God, we praise you, don’t let me think of the ambush. The electric fan blew my hair. The rest of my body was one sweaty, sopping mess. My hands got cold, and I breathed into them like I was freezing to death. Espi looked at me, her eyes opening wide. “You’re cold?” I only shrugged my shoulders.

  The Secretary of the Army has asked me to inform you that the 1st Infantry Division, Company B has suffered an ambush in a battle outside Saigon. At this point no further information is available. You will be provided progress reports and kept informed of any new information concerning your son Sergeant Jesse A. Ramirez.

  The telegram sent my mother into a panic, even though the messenger made it clear that it was not a death notice. Jesse’s words scrambled around in my head, I don’t think I’m coming back, Teresa. Take care of Mom. I was waiting, every nerve in my body held taut by Jesse’s words racing through my mind like a flashing neon sign. What would I say to my mother if Jesse was killed? That I knew and didn’t tell her? Kept it from her, didn’t watch Paul close enough and he fell off a tree, scared her half to death almost drowning in the Salt River and she lost Inez, then El Ganso died at the Jones’s Granary all because of me. Am I a hex, la muerte herself? Did Nana know? She had asked me what Jesse said to me as she looked at us through the rearview mirror on our way to the airport. “Un secreto? What did Jesse say to you, mija?” “Nothing, Nana, nothing important, just something about Chris.” But I could see the truth in Nana’s eyes. She knew. Nana had learned how to glide through the debris of life, floating through still waters, bumping shoulders with brambles and thorns, letting them sting her arms, her legs, then gliding away.

  My mother’s voice rose again for the chorus…

  Bendito, bendito, bendi—

  The last word punched the air like a fist that never stopped being a fist. My mother didn’t finish the last syllable. Yolanda struck the keys with more power, looking over her shoulder at my mother, her brows gathering into a frown. We trailed unsteadily into the huge space my mother’s voice had vacated, limping our way through the song, word by word. I looked at Espi, and all I thought about was Ray telling me Jesse would come home. “Jesse knows how to watch his back, Teresa.” And I smiled like one of the women who watched him at the bars, open-mouthed. Espi poked me in the ribs. Her eyes said, “What’s wrong…what’s wrong with your mom?” I looked at my mother as though I had never seen her before. Everything about her had stopped. She had turned to stone. She was a ceramic statue. My mother’s mouth was open, but there was no sound. I saw her lean over the balcony rail. The sheets of music slipped out of her hand and fell over, fluttering down to the empty pews below. I followed her eyes. The side door was open and sunshine was pouring in. Outlined in the light stood Father Ramon with a military man dressed in Army green. Messenger from hell. My mother’s eyes were fixed on the military man. Yolanda’s hands froze over the keys.

  “What is it?” she shouted. She spun around on the bench, jumping off like an athlete.

  My mother’s voice ripped the silence apart. “MIJO! NO! NOT MY SON! NOT MY SON! PLEASE GOD, NOT MY SON!” Once, twice, many times…so many times, “NOT MY SON! PLEASE GOD, NOT MY SON!” I put my hands over my ears. I thought I saw the saints on the stained glass windows do the same. My mother’s voice made me cringe. “JESSE’S GONE! YOU TOOK MY SON! GOD, WHY DID YOU TAKE MY SON?” I arched my back to hold in the pain. Her cries bounced off everything at the same time, making one loud
echoing shout. Yolanda grabbed my mother and held her up to her huge breasts like she was a baby. The pigeons on the rooftop cooed wildly. Who can stand to hear the sound of a mother who knows her son is no more?

  In one leap I was at the balcony rail. Manuel was right beside me. I saw the whites of Manuel’s eyes gleaming, huge and empty behind his glasses. He held me in a big bear hug, pulling me away, afraid I’d jump. I grabbed a book of hymns and flung it with all my might over the rail, missing the military man by inches.

  Gold of Asia ·

  January 31, 1968

  Dear Sis,

  It’s unreal what’s happening over here. At first we thought there were celebrations going on. The Vietnamese celebrate Tet, their New Year holiday. Incoming fire sounded like firecrackers. We didn’t get the information on time. Just like these bastards. They cover their asses especially during holidays. I tell you it’s like hell over here (don’t tell you know who). Our squad has lost four men. Four. It sounds like 94 to me. One is too many. Guys ride on choppers with dead bodies in body bags. Sometimes the poor dead suckers don’t fit in the bags and their legs stick out. Guys get nervous and start cracking jokes. They know it could be them. Did you light the candle? Don’t worry I’m doing everything I can to stay alive. I don’t want to ride in a body bag.

  The people here are poor. You’ve never seen anything like this. Kids going through the garbage. They’ll fight over a bone. Sis, this must be hell. What are we doing here anyway? Get this. Trucks here are made in Russia. They got Mitsubishi engines from Japan and Goodyear tires from the U.S. So what do you think this is all about? I look around and think the Vietnamese are right when they say “Dogs go home!” It’s all about money and land for rice. I’m sending you the gold of Asia in this letter, rice, what else?

  They have altars around here for the dead. Remember how we have El Dia de los Muertos? Well here they do it every day. They bury the dead in their front yards. I see these red candles burning in houses with pictures of the dead and statues of Buddha. Family members try to take everything down before the shooting starts. The Vietnamese don’t like souls wandering around without a grave to hang onto. Even the homeless people get a grave. There’s little altars along the roads for souls who don’t have a regular place to stay. Can you imagine how these people think? There’s a family here, a Mom, two daughters and a son, a little kid about Paul’s age. They’re Catholics, believe it or not. They fled from the north to get away from the Communists. They’ve been good to me. I even went to church with them the other day. One of the daughters looks like a princess. I mean it. They wear these beautiful dresses called ao yais. I wish the girls in the States could see their clothes. Now that’s what I call women’s clothes! I’ll get you and Priscilla one. Guess what the sermon was on? The Good Samaritan! I couldn’t understand a word but a Vietnamese who knows English told me. No better story to show us how wrong we are.

  Hey, is Gates back? Last I heard he was in Nha Trang. And Willy? Where is he? I lost track. Chris is still with me. Check out the picture. Me and Chris posing with M-60 machine guns. We’re standing on Ho Chi Minh’s trail. All that’s a lie. There’s lots of trails over bridges and all kinds of ways. The U.S. protects the routes. They got a stake in the war like everybody else. We look at a trail and we automatically think Ho Chi Minh. Uncle Wes wouldn’t know what to do if he found the real Ho Chi Minh, except to bomb him off the face of the earth. I wrote to Espi and she hasn’t answered yet. How’s Paul and Priscilla doing in school? Tell them they better study and hard too. Is Dad staying away from C? I won’t even write her name. And Ignacio? Tell Julio about him if he bothers you. Julio will do business with him. Hug Mom and Nana for me and give them a kiss on each cheek. Tell them to stop crying. I’m OK.

  Guess what? The moon’s the same over here in Vietnam. I’ll be damned if the sun don’t shine just like it does back in the world. At night when I can see stars I think I’m nobody, a small speck, lost. Then in the morning I’m a soldier again. Play Solitary Man for me.

  SWAK

  Jesse

  I shake out the remains of a fragile rice stalk into my hand. The gold of Asia weighs next to nothing.

  • THERE ARE PLACES in El Cielito I’ve avoided all my life. Bars for instance, that attract vagabonds, drunks, and ordinary people who want to sit around and listen to music or do some dancing. Places I wouldn’t be caught dead in, with pool tables in back rooms, green fabric seared by cue sticks and filthy lamps hanging overhead. I’ve glimpsed these things in passing, running, actually. As a child, I peered into these hovels of disrepute where people fought, howled, whooped, and issued out sometimes in couples to make love under the bushes in the alley next to our house. The bars fascinated and repelled me at the same time. Now I had to put all my feelings aside to hunt down Gates Williams in one of them. There was no other way to reach him to tell him my mother wanted him to go with us to the Wall.

  “He hang over by Penny’s Pool Hall,” Blanche tells me. Her daughter, Betty, is standing next to her with two kids. She’s dark like Franklin, taller than her mother by two heads at least. Blanche looks the same except her hair is white, and she’s put on weight, not as much as Hanny, but still enough to make her move slower. I wonder if she still has the hat with the red pin. I open my mouth to ask and decide it wouldn’t matter.

  “Where’s Cindy?” I ask her.

  “She moved to Seattle with her husband and is miserable over there, because she says the sun don’t shine much.”

  Betty’s watching me. “Heard about all that money your mother got back. Saw it on TV. Now that’s something! I tell you, when the government messes up, they mess up good. I wish they’d mess up on my child support money.” I hear another child cry inside the house, and Betty disappears.

  “I’m so tired of these kids,” Blanche says. “I’d rather stay out here on the porch all day, Teresa. If it weren’t so dangerous, I’d sleep out here. Why, I remember when…” She gazes off into the past, her eyes staring at nothing in particular.

  “Well, I better go, Blanche. My mom is real excited about this trip.”

  “Your po’ Mom ain’t been the same since Jesse was kilt. Never come out of it. You go on now and tell her she be doing the right thing, that ol’ Blanche sends her a big hug and kiss. Lord have mercy on the bunch of you…ain’t she sick, Teresa?”

  “Yes, she is. I’ve tried to talk her out of it, but she’s made a promise to get to the Wall and won’t let it go. Mom’s stubborn. Remember when she went to see Brother Jakes and got healed of her migraines. There was no stopping her then either. I’m glad she went, because look what happened.”

  “Oh, I’ve never forgotten that night, Teresa. Nothin’ like the power of the Lord to zap a sickness away! His son be preaching now, Pastor Rufus, but everybody call him Bear. He’s ’bout as big as Gates and strong! That’s the way he got Two Doors Gospel filled up. If he can’t convince a man to turn to God by preachin’ the gospel, he strong-arms him.”

  “Strong-arms him?”

  “Oh, yeah, honey, he arm wrestles them! Bets a lot of money, ’cause he know he be winning. Men are greedy, you know, Teresa, they never say no. If they lose they have to come to church for a month! I tell you, that church is filled with men every Sunday. All the sisters are goin’ crazy with so many men.”

  “I heard he plays a mean guitar, too.”

  “That too!”

  We’re both laughing. I can just see all the men who lost at arm wrestling, sweating and jumping around whether they like it or not.

  “Well, now, you’ll be fine, Teresa, baby. I’m prayin’ for all of yous. If you find Gates tell him Erica’s on his trail, that’s his latest ex-wife. I can’t tell you how I’ve lived with all the worry Gates has caused me. Franklin never gave me a bit of trouble. He lives in Mesa now, working as a probation officer.”

  It’s hard to imagine that one of Blanche’s sons bought into the system and the other one is doing all he can to stomp on it. Blanche opens her ar
ms to me, and I curl up in her round, black arms. She feels warm, soothing.

  “I miss Hanny,” I tell her.

  “Oh, so do I, and all that cookin’, ’member?”

  The name Hanny races across my mind. I imagine it on a headstone like a neon sign flashing. “I loved her ostrich hat.”

  “Hmm…you too?” There are tears in Blanche’s eyes. “Everything’s changed now, Teresa. You’re so skinny, I’m getting s’cred. I’ll send you some peach cobbler. How’s that?”

  “Like the one we ate when Brother Jakes was in town?”

  “Yes, like that one.” She kisses my forehead.

  • I DECIDE TO VISIT Penny’s Pool Hall before the sun sets, right before things get loud and wild. It’s not far from Mom’s house, located in a string of taverns, grocery stores, two barber shops, and a tortilla factory bordering Buckeye Road. Before I know it, I’m in the parking lot at Penny’s getting out of my Honda and walking on gravel, loose rocks that get caught in the heels of my shoes. PENNY’S POOL HALL is painted in yellow letters and is punctuated by huge brown pennies that look like flying saucers. Some of the pennies are painted with their sides showing the bust of President Lincoln, others show the Lincoln Memorial in D.C. I’ve always wondered why the place was called Penny’s but now, up close, I can see a connection between Abraham Lincoln on the pennies and the freeing of the slaves. They should have added a five-dollar bill or two.

  This is an all-Black bar, and I’m definitely not Black. I walk into the place dressed in an all-white pantsuit. The doors are the push kind, worn out in the middle where most people push or fall through, whichever the case may be. I’m cursing Paul under my breath for not doing this himself. “I’ll never get out alive,” was his excuse. It was all I could do to stop my mother from running over to Penny’s herself to invite Gates once she started thinking about how Gates and Jesse went to school together and boxed at the Golden Gate Gym with Trini.