Let Their Spirits Dance

by Stella Pope Duarte

  “What does she say?”

  “She sent a press release throughout the nation to hundreds of television stations. We’re big news now, Tía!” I look around at a few strangers talking to Paul, Donna, Manuel, Priscilla, Gates, Willy, and Susie.

  “Hey, Dad! Take a look at this. Holly Stevens sent our story everywhere!” Paul walks over to the van with Donna.

  “Dad?” I whisper to Donna. “Did you hear that, Donna? Michael just called Paul Dad.”

  Donna smiles. “Sounds good! Michael and Paul have been talking since Paul defended him in Flagstaff.”

  “She what?” Paul asks.

  “Our story, Dad. Don’t you remember the reporter?”

  “The one you fell in love with,” Donna says.

  “Come on, babe, you know I only love you. What did the redhead do?” Paul asks.

  “She sent out a press release on us!”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “I thought you didn’t want publicity, Paul.” He turns and looks at me.

  “A little publicity never hurt anybody.”

  “Now you’re talking my language!”

  “I can teach you how to get into our web site, Dad,” Michael says. I watch as Paul listens to directions on how to get onto the Internet.

  “They’re finally talking,” Donna says. “Something’s working.”

  “I haven’t heard Michael call Paul Dad for years,” I tell her.

  “It’s about time,” Donna says.

  Manuel and Priscilla walk out of the souvenir shop together, and Priscilla is showing off a necklace Manuel bought her.

  “Lots of other things are working, too,” I tell Donna. We laugh together.

  I notice that people treat the old Guadalupanas with respect. They understand old women in this part of the country, las Doñas, the age of wisdom. They understand not leaving them behind, bringing them with us like our ancestors did, traveling with everyone we know to reach a place we don’t know anything about. Maybe that’s why our ancestors traveled together. They huddled together, walking behind the hummingbird war god Huitzilopochtli all the way to Tenochitlán where they saw the eagle on a nopal with a serpent in its peak. It was there they settled together, always together at the mercy of the sun, moon, rain, of Huitzilopochtli himself, who turned on them and exacted human hearts so that he could be born anew each day in the heavens. He was the sun, dying each evening, fighting with the stars and moon in the day. Don Florencío said his own people were afraid of Huitzilopochtli and pined after Quetzalcoatl, the white, bearded god. When Quetzalcoatl appeared, looking like Cortés, they wept because he was a murderer, too. That’s the story of blood and gore that shamed the history of the Aztecs. I’m wondering about the stories that shame the history of America, that lead us from one endless trek to another, chasing power and dominion, leaving our hearts in foreign lands, righting other peoples’ wrongs while forgetting our own.

  • WE ROLL INTO ALBUQUERQUE late that afternoon, and stop at Old Town to get our bearings. I feel we’ve traveled through a time tunnel back to the 1600s, the time of the Spaniards and Pueblo Indians. Los patrones from Spain took the land from the Indians, killed their leaders, known as caciques, and tried to destroy their gods, only to be treated in the same manner a century later by white pioneers. San Felipe de Neri, sitting in the center of Old Town, is one of the churches the Spanish built over two hundred years ago. In the distant sky appear the purple slopes of the Jemez and Manzano mountain ranges. New Mexico, the “Land of Enchantment.” Now I know why. San Felipe de Neri captures the Spaniards’ preoccupation for creating churches that rise above ordinary adobe buildings and small shops, to point man toward Heaven. Every plaza announces to the world that God is the center of the universe. He is at the heart of mankind’s highest hopes and most terrible longings.

  Enormous shade trees, lining the courtyard around San Felipe de Neri, are home to hundreds of birds that chirp and sing from dawn to dusk. A sign at the church door tells tourists they are entering a sacred place. Respect is demanded. Sunday masses have ended, and the church is quiet. I look over a church bulletin that advertises a celebration for St. Charles Lawanga and the Uganda Martyrs at St. Thomas Church in Rio Rancho.

  “There’s an African American community around here,” I tell Gates.

  “I’m not African American.”

  “Oh, really. What are you, then?” Gates looks at me, but doesn’t answer.

  Our cars are parked along the sidewalk, and the kids run into a grassy area across the street with a gazebo in its center. My mother walks unsteadily into the church with Irene at her side. We dip our fingers into small basins of holy water and make the sign of the cross, letting drops of water linger on our foreheads. The two old women pull lace veils out of their purses, even though I insist they don’t have to wear veils anymore. I walk in behind them, adjusting my long steps to their short ones. We’re walking over a centuries-old pathway in the footsteps of others who have crossed the wooden threshold and walked up to the ornate altar with statues of saints dressed in real robes. Candles flicker in dim corners, illuminating saints I know nothing about. The Guadalupanas join two old women in the pews. The four of them look like quadruplets. They finish saying a rosary. Their prayers are blunt echoes rising into the beams of the ceiling. There is nothing more consuming than sacred silence. It’s space charged with energy, heaven touching earth. The old women are part of it all, the stillness, the statues, the candles, the smell of incense, the chants. I drop to the floor on my knees, conscious of everyone else behind me, sitting in the pews. Priscilla, Paul, Donna, Willy, Susie, Gates, Manuel, and the kids are waiting for me to finish, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing in the first place. I ask God please to get us to the Wall, ask Him, then tell Him in the next sentence. I can’t decide if I’m ordering Him to get us there or pleading with Him for mercy. I look back at Mom who motions me over.

  “Doña Rebecca tells me there is a chapel to La Virgen de Guadalupe close by.” She points to one of the old women from New Mexico sitting next to her.

  “Your mother should visit there. I see she’s a Guadalupana. So am I.”

  “It’s not far, mija. We want to visit there.”

  “Mom, we have to pick up Chris. I’ll call him up as soon as I can. We don’t have much time.” Mom’s eyes are tired, right in the center of her pupils where light should be shining, there is filmy liquid.

  “Mom, are you OK?” I reach over and feel her forehead.

  “Ya, mija. What are you so worried about? God wouldn’t kill me in church! We have to pay our respects to La Virgen.”

  “What’s wrong with Mom?” Priscilla is standing next to me.

  “Nothing. She wants to go to some chapel that she says is close by.”

  “So now we’re gonna stop at every church in this nation? We’ll never get to D.C.”

  “Just this one, mija.” Mom looks up at Priscilla. The boys, Lisa, and Lilly are walking behind the altar rail.

  “Ok, kids,” Priscilla says. “Let’s go!”

  “Keep your voice down,” I tell her. “Didn’t you read the sign?” Priscilla doesn’t answer. She helps Mom get up and looks worried as she stares intently at Mom’s face.

  “She looks weak, Teresa.”

  “I know. I’ll hurry and get in touch with Chris, so we can get to our rooms.” We talk over Mom’s head the way we used to, lying on either side of her when we were kids. Paul is waiting at the entrance.

  “What’s wrong with Mom?”

  “Nothing, mijo,” Mom answers. “All of you stop worrying. Can’t you feel the power in this place? If I could take this power with me, I’d run all the way to the Wall and never get tired. Que no, Irene, like in the old days.”

  “I would run right behind you, cree lo!” Irene says.

  Around the corner from San Felipe de Neri is La Capilla de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, an adobe structure with its door wide open. The chapel is simple, depicting the beauty of poverty.
Flowers decorate a picture of La Virgen and there is a wooden kneeler for prayer. Light filters in from small, rectangular windows illuminating sayings on the walls. Michael reads the words out loud…The zeal for your house has eaten me up…Love me and you will earn my love…My soul has desired thee in the night, in the morn will I watch for thee.

  Everyone crowds into the chapel, standing so close we brush shoulders. Willy is busy taking pictures. He’s become our official photographer. I’m glad for that, he’s got the fanciest camera.

  “I’ve never been in a Catholic church before,” Willy says.

  “I have,” Gates says. “Jesse took me there a couple of times, and I still remember all the candles, and big, old statues dressed like real people. Hey, Teresa, why do you guys burn so many candles?”

  “They’re prayers, Gates. Manuel over there can tell you more. He used to be an altar boy.” Manuel walks in with Priscilla and the kids. He makes the sign of the cross over himself.

  “What’s that for?” Gates asks him.

  “It’s a blessing. You do that to remind yourself that this is a holy place,” Manuel tells him.

  “In China, they take off their shoes when they walk into a sacred place,” Willy says. “I was there with my dad once.”

  Gates ducks down through an archway to go from one small room to the other.

  “Didn’t make them too tall, did they?” he says.

  “You’re too tall, Gates,” Susie says. “You should see some of the houses in the Philippines. They’re smaller than this.”

  Mom and Irene are taking turns using the kneeler. They cry and dab their eyes with Kleenex. Mom and Irene are mothers making their way back to their sons. Firstborn sons, hidden away from them all these years. Maybe that’s another reason Mom’s so tired. Her heart is beating as it did when Jesse was alive, except she’s not forty anymore, she’s almost eighty. Her heart can’t decide what’s making it come to life again.

  Donna takes turns on the kneeler with the Guadalupanas. She’s as reverent as they are, making the sign of the cross when she enters and leaves a holy place. I’m surprised she learned church etiquette so quickly. She’s the first white woman I’ve ever seen who knows how to be a Guadalupana. Faith is what Donna respects. Faith is faith, no matter what the religion, she says. Donna is big on Mom, so it’s easy for her to respect La Virgen. Her mother was a drug addict and gave Donna up when she was a baby.

  I make a call to Chris while everyone is sitting at an outdoor restaurant eating. He answers the phone on the first ring. I know he’s been waiting for me.

  “You’re real close to me, Teresa,” he says. He sounds happy. His voice makes me long to see him. He gives me directions to get to Los Griegos, a neighborhood close to Old Town. “Everything here is named after some Spanish family, or Indian tribe,” he explains. Manuel is watching me on the phone. I make a sign to him for a paper and pencil and repeat the directions out loud so Manuel can write them down. After I hang up, Manuel’s still looking at me like I’ve done something wrong.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No, just that your face changed when you talked to Chris.”

  “Changed?”

  “Yeah, like you were real happy.”

  “I am happy! I haven’t seen Chris in years, plus I want to get to our rooms.”

  Manuel stares at me for a few seconds, then reaches for his wallet to pay the bill. Outside, I notice a few tourists gathered around our cars, talking to the kids and taking pictures. One teenage girl is taking Cisco’s picture. Once, twice, three times I see the flash go off, as Cisco strikes various wrestling poses.

  “By the way, Teresa, where’s Chris gonna ride? Isn’t he bringing his wife?”

  “He’s divorced, Manuel. He’s over at his mom’s for now. Maybe he can help you drive. You can take turns.” I regret saying the words as soon as I’ve said them. Manuel looks as if I just kicked him.

  “Yeah, that’s you, right, Teresa? You can do with one or the other. It doesn’t matter.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this. All I care about is getting Mom to the Wall.”

  “Really? There’s more to it, and I…”

  I don’t let him finish. “I’m not going to argue with you!”

  Priscilla passes between us. “What’s going on?”

  “What do you do, spy on me?”

  “Can’t help it. You’re big sis, the big cheese around here. The one who gives the orders.”

  “You mean the one Mom decided to put in charge.”

  “Let’s put it this way. You planned all this, Manuel’s got the money, and me and Paul are just here for the ride.”

  “So help me, when we get back home…”

  “Threatening me? I think she’s threatening me, Manuel.”

  “I don’t think so. She’s just a little nervous about all this.”

  “You don’t have to defend me, Manuel. I can speak for myself.”

  “And you do, all the time,” Priscilla says.

  Mom is watching us, drinking a cup of tea. She stands up. “Mijas, let’s go now. We can’t keep Chris waiting. I haven’t seen his mother in years, pobrecita. She was a drunk in the old days, but now she’s too old for that. She was always after men, can you imagine, and her husband was so religious! She went after Pablo Jesús for a while. El nervio!”

  I’m surprised to hear the passion in Mom’s voice as she talks about Dad. “Doña Hermina was after Dad?”

  “For a little while. She was just a big flirt. Pablo only had eyes for you know who, anyway. Sin verguenza!”

  “Did you pay the bill, moneybags?” Paul asks Manuel.

  “I got it.”

  “Crazy. My own mother doesn’t trust me with the money!”

  “Don’t start all this, Paul,” I tell him. “You’ve given everybody good reason not to trust you.”

  “Another lecture from you! I’ve paid my dues. Wait until there’s a warrant out for your arrest! If I remember clearly, you got a subpoena for a court hearing, and now you’re out of state. That’s rule one, sis, you gotta stay in-state.”

  “To hell with the subpoena! I have more important things to do!”

  Mom looks at me. “Don’t cuss, mija!”

  “Do you eat with that mouth?” Irene asks me.

  Paul starts laughing. “It’s getting to you, isn’t it? I know the feeling. Run while you can, baby.”

  Paul’s laughter makes me even more defensive. “I’m not running anywhere. The whole nation knows where we are. The cops can just come and get me.” I say the words flippantly, then swing my purse over my shoulder, as if Paul’s words don’t mean a thing to me, and I’m ready to move on, no matter what happens.

  Michael is already in their van with Angelo, connecting the phone to the laptop for incoming messages. He waves to me and gives me a thumbs up.

  “It’s working, Tía…the web page is a winner!” he yells.

  “See, what am I telling you? It’s no secret where I am.”

  As we walk out of the restaurant, a waiter catches up to us. He’s a kid, not much older than Lisa and Lilly.

  “Aren’t you the Ramirez family? The ones headed for the Vietnam Wall?”

  “Yes, we are,” I tell him.

  “Hey, Licos!” He calls another waiter. “I told you, man, these are the people I saw on TV last night. Can I take your picture? Right there,” he says, “with your mom and her friend, and your daughters. Fine-looking! Your daughters are fine. Do they want dates? Just kidding!”

  Manuel and I pose with Mom, Irene, and the girls. The waiter and his friend Licos are all smiles, clicking the camera, then shaking our hands, and giving the girls a menu with their phone numbers on it.

  Los Griegos ·

  We’re racing now, or so it seems to me. La manda is the iron in our bones, the Wall is the magnet. I’m wondering if it’s Mom’s promise or Jesse’s we’re keeping, maybe they both made a manda, that’s why it’s so strong. We can’t go back, can’t even stop
to get Mom checked by a doctor. It would waste too much time, and we don’t have any. I’m afraid of turning back and afraid of getting to the Wall. If the Wall reminds us of our pain, why would we want to touch it? Maybe la manda is breaking pain’s power. We’re in pursuit of pain, instead of the other way around. If we’re pursuing, does that make us more powerful than pain?

  The Spanish names on the streets in Albuquerque get blurred in my mind, Don Pascual, Isleta, Emilio Lopez, Don Jacoba, and villages like Atrisco, Los Lunas, Los Padillas, Peralta. Chris lives in a neighborhood that looks like El Cielito. We pass LA BOTICA, a pharmacy advertising herbs and medicinal teas. Irene tells me that orange flower tea is used to calm the nerves and help you sleep, and pecan tree leaves are for anemia. Fig tree infusion, she says, is used to bring in milk for nursing mothers. “That’s how I got my big chichonas and fed all my kids, even the last one, the one the doctors said was deformed, you remember Santiago who was born blue?”

  “Cornsilk tea,” my mother says, “didn’t I tell Matilde, that so-called mother of yours, to use it to clean out her kidneys, Manuel? No, she never listened to me, and now look where she is, on a machine that sucks up all her blood. God only knows what’s inside her veins once her blood goes round and round in those plastic tubes. May God forgive me, but maybe she deserves it for all she did to you.”

  “No, Doña, don’t think that way. She did take me in, after all.”

  “Matilde never was a believer in herbs,” Irene says. “But look at this.” She holds up a strand of gray hair. “I had the darkest hair by drinking rosemary tea. Dark and shiny, maybe that’s why Lencho married me. Look, see right here.” She pulls up her hair. “You can still see dark hair. Oh, and I used the rose of Castile to cleanse my eyes.”

  “Why are you trying to stay young?” Mom asks her. “Eres vieja. Why don’t you admit it, Irene, you’ve got one foot in the grave.”

  “Don’t talk to me about graves! My mother lived until she was one hundred and two.”

  “What a pity. I would never want to live that long. Don’t you remember Doña Mariana and how she lived to be over a hundred years old? She had to be put in a cradle with a baby bottle in her mouth. Then her kids never cleaned her face and the milk dribbled down the sides of her mouth. Sugar ants, can you imagine? Ants ate off half her face!”