Let Their Spirits Dance

  I’m watching the twins and thanking God they’re dressed in their baggy clothes. I don’t want them stirring up Mom and Irene. I’m not in the mood to hear a description of the horrors that await disolutas who run around half-naked all the way to D.C.

  Ray’s already mentioned Cisco’s earring several times. I think the Guadalupanas can’t see it, which is why they haven’t taken up on it themselves.

  “How can you go to the Wall with that thing stuck in your ear?”

  “Dad, some of the guys who made it through Vietnam wear earrings!” Cisco says.

  “I don’t wear one! Never will either.”

  Ray’s ignoring me. “I can drive the van,” he told me the night before we left. “Can’t you put your anger aside and let me help you? Manuel doesn’t have to go.”

  “My mom wants Manuel to go. He’s handling all the money. Besides, where will you sleep, Ray? Won’t you be lonely without Sandra? She’ll get mad. Oh, and by the way, tell her the subpoena she sent doesn’t mean a damn thing to me. We’ll see what the judge says.”

  I said all this between clenched teeth. The part of me that wanted to reach out to Ray has shrunk to the size of a pea. Inside me, the cells that still remember him are floating loose, forming clusters of cells that send new messages to my brain, messages that are untangling knots I’ve held inside since the days of Consuelo and Dad.

  Blanche and Betty show up with a tin of peach cobbler.

  “Here, Teresa, get some meat on them bones,” Blanche says to me. She gives Mom a big hug that lasts over a minute. “Alicia, don’t you worry ’bout nothin’. ’Member when our Lord healed you from the migraines? Nothing to it, praise be to His name!” Both women are crying.

  “Is Gates coming?” Mom asks. “We’ll wait for him.”

  “NO! Don’t wait!” says Blanche, alarmed. “That man don’t know if it’s day or night.”

  “But…I—”

  “Mom, we don’t know. He still might come,” I tell her.

  “Call him up, mija,” she tells me.

  “Oh, no, Alicia! Who knows where that man is!”

  “Drive safe, Manuel,” Blanche says. “My aunt lives in D.C., and she doesn’t even own a car. She’s so s’cred of driving up there she moves by subway.”

  “I’ll be real careful, Blanche. Too many women looking over my shoulder,” Manuel says.

  Riding up the street in a black Riviera is Priscilla and her new boyfriend. I think his name is Albert. He’s dark with broad shoulders. He drops Priscilla and the boys off. Priscilla gets out of the car wearing Levi’s cut-offs, a black tank top, and wooden clogs.

  Paul looks closely at Albert. “I think I saw him in the pen,” he says.

  “Got everything ready, Teresa?” Priscilla asks me. “I know how you crave organization.”

  “I’m sure I forgot something, if that makes you feel better.”

  “Here they go!” Paul says. “I hope the two of you make it to the Wall in one piece. I can just see one of you making a U-turn and coming back home.”

  Priscilla kisses Albert, and they say good-bye.

  “Hey,” Paul calls out. “You done some time?”

  Albert ignores him and drives away.

  “Shut up, Paul!” Priscilla says. “Just cause you’ve spent half your life in there, you think everybody else has, too.”

  “I never forget a pretty face,” Paul says sarcastically.

  Coming up the street is the Channel 5 van.

  “Uh, look at this! Michael’s got the news people out again,” Paul says. “That kid’s got a big head. Needs a little deflating, if you ask me.”

  “Don’t start!” Donna tells him. “He can’t help it if he’s smart.”

  “Don’t start with me, Donna!”

  “Stop talking so loud. You’ll upset your mom.”

  “He’s my kid, Donna. Remember, I am his father. I can have my opinions about my own kid.”

  My shoulders slump. Already I’m tired of Paul and Donna, and the trip hasn’t even started! By the time I walk up to the Channel 5 van, Michael is explaining the route we will take to the redheaded reporter, Holly Stevens. Michael’s got a map of the U.S. with a dark, red line drawn across the center. The camera is rolling on Michael and the scene of us loading up the cars.

  “We’ll take Interstate 17 to Flagstaff, then Interstate 40 through Winslow to Albuquerque to pick up my uncle’s friend Chris Montez. From Albuquerque we’ll go on I-25, I means interstate, to Colorado Springs, running into state highway 24, then back to I-70 to Topeka, Kansas, and all the way to Baltimore and Washington, D.C.”

  “My, aren’t you the little map expert!”

  “This is nothing. I want to be a cosmologist when I grow up. I have to start somewhere.”

  “He wants to draw maps of the universe,” Angelo says, folding his arms in front of him. He seems as if he’s just made an important announcement to the whole world.

  “Are you going to help him?” asks Holly.

  “Am I gonna help you?” Angelo asks Michael.

  “Of course you are! We’re gonna have our own observatory!”

  “My, what a mind-blowing idea!”

  Michael’s got his laptop computer in a leather case. He slings it over his shoulder. “This,” he says, “is what’s gonna keep us in touch with America. I made a web site for Nana.” He points to the web site address pasted on the inside of the van window, www.jramirez68.com. Holly jots it down on her notepad. On another window, Michael pasted the words VIETNAM MEMORIAL WALL. WE REMEMBER.

  “Your grandmother’s lucky to have a grandson who’s so smart! I’ll send you messages, and you tell me how everything’s going. Will you, Michael?”

  Michael is beaming into the camera, “Yeah, yeah, I will.”

  Holly walks over to my mother. Mom’s sitting in the van with Irene. Lisa and Lilly are behind her, adjusting their Walkman headphones and fluffing up their pillows. Mom’s wearing her favorite pink blouse, dotted with bouquets of purple roses, a pair of black slacks, and Reebok tennis shoes. Her white hair is brushed back around her face, barely showing her ears, and smoothed down at the back of her head. From the back, she looks like she’s wearing a white cap. She sets her cane up between the seat and window. Her eyes are full of the same look she gave me when she saw the photo of the Wall. She’s got a surprise hiding behind her back, wouldn’t I like to know! Irene’s hair is dyed black and gathered into a bun. She’s got a beauty mark, too, close to her bottom lip that Mom always said drove men crazy. I can’t imagine either one of them ever making love, but I guess they did, they have kids. They’re wearing their medallions of La Virgen and gold loops on their ears. I pick up the scent of bath powder, a surprising, newborn baby fragrance.

  Irene’s wearing a long navy blue dress with stockings and black-laced shoes. “You need tennis shoes,” Mom told her before they got on the van. She lifted the edge of her pant legs and showed off her white Reeboks. “Never!” said Irene. “Imagine, tu Nana en tenis!”

  The two old women sit stiffly in the back seat, ready for their trip across the nation. Their faces are transformed with excitement, turning wrinkles into faint lines curving gently around eyes, cheeks, and lips. We’re all children off on an adventure, Americans who have never seen America.

  “This is the big day, Mrs. Ramirez!” Holly says. She points the microphone toward Mom.

  “Yes, I think so. Did he call you again?”

  “Who?”

  “The man on your phone?”

  “Oh, him…yes, he did.”

  “Are you friends again?”

  “No!”

  “Good. You be strong, mija.” Holly looks flustered. She picks up the thread of her story again.

  “You’ll be at the Vietnam Wall soon, Mrs. Ramirez. How do you feel?”

  “I feel God is with us, nothing can stop us.”

  “You have so much faith!”

  “We’re moving into invisible parallels,” says Michael, “The invisible has s
poken!”

  “Stop that kid!” Paul yells. “He’s gonna put all the New Agers on us.”

  “You’re so bright to come up with that!” Holly says to Michael.

  “Yeah, he’s a walking encyclopedia,” Paul says.

  “He’s a genius, pobrecito,” my mother says.

  “I’m not a chip off the old block, that’s for sure,” Michael says pointing to Paul. “That’s my dad.”

  “That’s your father!” Holly says in amazement.

  “You got a problem with that?” Paul asks her.

  “No, of course not. It just took me by surprise. Tell me, Michael, do you believe your grandmother really is connected to a parallel universe?”

  “That’s one assumption. Nana has faith, and that’s powerful, too. Subatomic particles are not independent energy. Everything’s connected to everything else. What you do in one place affects the others, and that goes for the entire universe.”

  “Gee, I’m impressed. I’ll have to think about all that.”

  “My mother is happy,” I tell the reporter. “She won’t rest until we get to the Wall. She’s made this promise, a manda we call it in Spanish, and there is no turning back.” Holly nods her head.

  “Your mother is a beautiful woman. She inspired me the last time I spoke with her. I haven’t been able to forget her and what she said to me.”

  “Lots of people won’t forget her,” says Michael. “She’s the first nana with her own web page. We’ll be talking to people we don’t even know.”

  “Yes, you will!” Holly says. “And to think you did it all on your own!” She steps back and points to the flags, the U.S. flag and the Mexican flag, stuck on either side of the two vans. “That’s colorful!”

  “OK, who did this?” I ask.

  “Cisco did,” says Manuel. “And look over there, he put a U.S. flag and a flag of China on Willy’s car.”

  “Yeah, Mom, people should know, we’re not just Americans, we’re Mexicans. We’re Chicanos, Chinese too.”

  “What’s the difference between a Mexican and a Chicano?” asks Holly.

  “Chicanos are second, third generation in the U.S. They are a mix of the Indian populations of Mexico and the Spanish Europeans. They call us Mestizos. Chicano is an Aztec word that used to be spelled with an x instead of ch. Originally we came north looking for Aztlán,” I tell her.

  “What’s Aztlán?”

  “It’s the mythical land of the Aztecs. They originated from Aztlán, from seven caves to what is now Mexico City, but was called Tenochtitlán in the old days. Many of them died wanting to find their homeland again.”

  “How interesting, how very, very interesting.” She bores into my eyes as she did at the first interview. “Do you believe in Aztlán?”

  “I believe in all kinds of things these days. Maybe we’re standing in Aztlán right now. Maybe we’ll be traveling through it to get to the Vietnam Wall. Can you tell me any different?”

  “No, actually myths may have some truth in them.”

  “Or, the truth may be a myth, and a myth the truth. Have you ever thought of that?” She looks away from me to Mom.

  “The truth is hard to figure out,” she says, wrinkling her eyebrows. She starts waving. “Good-bye, Mrs. Ramirez, and everyone else!” she says brightly. “Ad…iooos amigos! Good luck, have a safe trip. Oh, and Mrs. Ramirez, don’t forget my cousin, Robert O’Connor! Stay in touch, Michael!” Holly gives him a thumbs-up. She turns to the camera. “This is News Channel 5 with an update on the Ramirezes as they go cross-country on their way to the Vietnam Wall after receiving $92,000 from the U.S. government. This was due to the government’s failure to award the full amount of money in 1968 for the death of their loved one, Sgt. Jesse A. Ramirez. The government’s mistake has made it possible for the Ramirez family to make the trip to the Vietnam Wall. The family has its own web site, www dot jramirez68 dot com.” She smiles into the camera and continues narrating as we finish loading up.

  I check with Priscilla, Paul, and Willy to make sure they have the details of the route correct. Michael’s made copies of the map with the route outlined for them. Manuel starts the motor, and my mother is still asking about Gates. The Guadalupanas make the sign of the cross over themselves, breathing prayers for our safety, acclaiming St. Christopher, the saint for travelers. I wonder if Chris Montez was named after him. Elsa runs up to my open window with Marisol in her arms. She gives me a kiss on the cheek and our faces touch. There are tears.

  We start moving toward the freeway north to Flagstaff. I watch Elsa, Julio, Marisol, and Ray standing on the sidewalk. Ray’s holding Marisol now and he’s waving her little hand up and down, saying good-bye. The neighbors are all clapping, waving.

  We’re circling around the Central Park projects, the library, the park, another Chinese store, a Southwest Market, St. Anthony’s Church. A few cars are parked along the side of the street in front of the church. Early morning mass is going on, the doors are open wide. I catch a glimpse of the altar and the huge statue of St. Anthony in the middle. I look back at Mom and her lips are whispering prayers, not songs.

  Nana’s image comes to my mind. She walks ahead of all the women, long strides leading them to the white, shining altar. She’s hiding in the earth now next to Jesse. Father Ramon died five years ago in an old folks’ home for priests. Father Clemente is now the pastor. The old Guadalupanas make the sign of the cross and implore the blessings of La Virgen de Guadalupe as we pass the church.

  An old woman, holding on to a child’s hand, walks down a twisted alley littered with glass. The sunlight bouncing off the glass is a carpet of diamonds under their feet. I half expect to see Tortuga come out of one of the Freeman Project apartments in an army fatigue jacket, hunting down his next bottle of wine. Mom told me he’s on disability now and that his son, Mauricio, fell in love with a girl who only weighs ninety pounds. The girl made Mauricio lose over two hundred pounds, and now they’re married. Mom says the girl steams everything and cooks like the Chinese to keep Mauricio slim.

  It’s too early for children to be playing in the streets. A few old men sit out in chairs drinking café con leche. They wave to us as we pass by. More neighbors come out to the sidewalks, sensing something important going by. Sunday morning in El Cielito is not the same, the air is different somehow, charged by an invisible current.

  The ridge of the South Mountains is to my left, purple, blue in the distance. Bougainvillea vines and roses are blooming everywhere. Tamarisk trees and mulberries are in full leaf along the street, streets La Llorona left when she found out about Vietnam. I look South to El Rio Salado to Don Florencío’s old shack and see nothing, not even the tip of the twisted hill he lived close to. I make the sign of the cross over myself. Manuel sees me and puts his hand on my arm. I glimpse his eyes through his glasses, afraid he’ll see the pain in mine.

  The U.S. flags and Mexican flags on our vans are flapping in the wind, keeping time to the U.S. flag and Chinese flag on the Nissan Maxima. The old women are crying. I turn around and look out through the rear window and see the two vehicles in single file. Paul, Donna, Priscilla and the boys, Willy and Susie with the News Channel 5 Van trailing us, shooting its last footage. By the time we drive onto Central Avenue, other cars have joined us. Chevies, Fords, two pick-ups, a Blazer carrying Irene’s kids, the Ruizes, the Valdezes, the shiftless renters, Blanche and Betty, Elsa, Julio, Marisol, and Ray. Without knowing it, we have made our own procession.

  As we make the stoplight before heading down the Black Canyon Freeway, I hear a car honking. I put down the window on my side to get a better look. It’s the same gray, rusty Monte Carlo I saw at Penny’s Pool Hall. I see broad shoulders in the driver’s seat and the profile of a woman. Erica’s driving. Gates jumps out with a suitcase in one hand before the light changes to green and gets into Willy’s car. Suddenly, I like Erica and don’t mind if she fights like a man. My mother lifts her hands up to Heaven…. “Gracias, a Dios. Thanks be to God! I knew he woul
d answer my prayer.” Erica starts honking again as we climb onto the freeway ramp. Other cars join in, then horns start blaring on all sides from drivers who don’t even know us. It’s a noisy tribute for El Cielito’s Chicano soldier.

  • WE’RE PILGRIMS OF AZTLÁN, heading east, following the rising sun, on our own quest, una manda, searching out an invisible trek in a maze of voices calling, prayers, magical words, singsong chants of the ancient world, good wishes, broken promises, pain, traveling through the whiteness of Aztlán. My mother, the beginning of it all, is blind to all she’s done. We’re pilgrims on a journey to America’s wailing wall. Only faith will get us there.

  Changing Landscapes ·

  We stop at a rest area close to Flagstaff, in the middle of the Coconino National Forest. The bathrooms are brick structures with toilets that really flush. I walk around a huge pine tree, measuring its rough circumference with my hands, smelling the bark, hoping to catch a whiff of resin, copal for Don Florencío’s fire. The kids start running around, punching each other, shouting. Other Sunday picnickers sit on wooden tables, preparing food, drinking coffee. The sun is moving to the center of the world, making the pine trees’ shadows lean closer to their trunks. My lungs respond to the sweet mountain air. Manuel and I walk up a trail that leads into the forest.

  An elderly couple approach us, smiling. The man has his arm around his wife. He’s helping her walk over the uneven ground. She’s reaching out, one thin arm extended in front of her, as if she’s walking on ice.

  “Are you folks headed for the Vietnam Wall?” the man asks.

  “Yes, we are.”

  “I saw the signs on the window of the van.”

  “My nephew’s idea.”

  “I had a son who served in Vietnam—James Kinney. He made it through, thank God. He’s not on the Wall.”