Let Their Spirits Dance

by Stella Pope Duarte

  “What’s tiñeblas?”

  “Darkness. That’s what it means. I guess the penitentes figure they’re the ones who do penance for the darkness and sins of the world. Can you imagine my dad was a penitente and my mom was an alcoholic? Talk about opposites attracting! Sometimes they’d bring Nuestro Compadre Jesús for a visit at our house. I’m talking about a real wooden statue of Christ with movable hands and arms who was put up in people’s homes like He was actually visiting. I can tell you we were real good when Nuestro Compadre Jesús was visiting us!”

  “Unbelievable. I guess maybe everything combined helps us keep God in our minds…what do you think?”

  “I don’t know, but it kept us on the straight and narrow. And when we went off the trail, we knew it right away.” Chris smiles and kisses my cheek.

  “I’ve thought about you so much all these years, Teresa. I mean really thought about you…like wanting to kidnap you and bring you to Albuquerque.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “It’s a long story. After Jesse died, I didn’t think I was worthy of you.”

  “I can’t believe you said that!”

  We stop and sit on the stony ridge of a flower bed. I rest my chin on Chris’s shoulder. He clasps his hands in his lap.

  “Jesse died, I didn’t,” he says. “Sometimes I wish I had.”

  “That’s what Gates said.”

  “It’s more than that with me, Teresa. I was there when your brother died. I saw the whole thing.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Chris? Don’t tell me you think it was your fault.”

  “I’m not saying that…it’s just real complicated. I’ve never been able to clear my head.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “I’m not sure…maybe I do…let’s not talk about it.”

  He reaches in his pocket. “Forgot I quit smoking.” He wraps his arms around me and holds me tight.

  “Don’t be a penitente, Chris. You don’t have to do penance for Jesse’s death.”

  We stand up together, and Chris kisses me, not like he did at the airport when he left for Vietnam, but with a fierce energy, a hunger that makes me believe he’s really been waiting for me all these years. His energy ignites the part of me that watched him leave for Vietnam, watched the back of his uniform disappear into a sea of green. There’s warmth slipping into a forgotten part of me that took off on the plane for Vietnam, finally it’s throbbing, almost as if Chris never left at all.

  • THE GUADALUPANAS huddle together in Doña Hermina’s bed. The bed’s their cradle, the moon shining in through the window is their candlelight. Maybe Jesse’s spirit is burrowed in the atoms of moonlight filtering in through the window. I no longer expect to account for life in other dimensions. On Doña Hermina’s dresser, veladoras flicker away in front of images of La Virgen and a collection of saints. I notice Mom and Irene propped up Jesse and Faustino’s photos next to the pictures.

  The old ladies fit together in the bed, as if they’ve been sleeping together for a hundred years. Mom sleeps in the middle, Doña Hermina and Irene on either side. The moon in New Mexico isn’t the same as the one in Arizona. It’s cunning, lighting up places here and there where Spanish gold was buried. Arizona’s moon shines broadly and brightly over huge expanses of land.

  My mother and her friends, so many old bones together in one spot, shriveled bodies outlined by a white sheet that looks like a shroud. I’m not one to visit nursing homes. They’re too depressing. Where did the old ladies put their false teeth? Mom’s are in a plastic container, a blue one that looks like the one Cisco used for his retainer when he wore braces.

  Queta set up cots for the men out back in el cuartito. I wonder if Gates is with the other men or with Queta in her room. I can’t imagine Manuel and Chris sleeping in the same room, but then again la manda’s in control. Words that have stirred up the past and kicked up old memories are not as important as la manda. The boys are on blankets on the floor, the twins are sleeping with Priscilla in the next room. I sit in the dark for a few minutes and watch the old women sleep, listening to their uneven breathing, their light, trumpeting snores.

  “Where’s Chris?” My mother asks suddenly. Her eyes reflect specks of moonlight, small beams shining into mine.

  “Asleep,” I tell her. “He’s asleep.”

  “I don’t think so, mija. He’s awake, thinking of you.” Mom’s words jar the darkness, tag it, make it impossible for me to say no. She turns on her side and moans in pain, curling one arm over Irene and turning her back on Doña Hermina. Is she still holding a grudge on Doña Hermina for going after my dad when they were young? I open my mouth to ask her, then decide not to, instead I walk into the living room and rummage through my suitcase until I find the plastic bag with Jesse’s letters.

  February 24, 1968

  Dear Sis,

  I’ve been thinking a lot about El Cielito and all the things we did. I’m already missing Mom’s tortillas and Nana’s tamales. There’s not much to eat in the bush except C rations. Nothing is better than Mexican food, I’m convinced. I don’t really care about eating these days anyway. We lost another guy, un mejicano from Detroit of all places. We called him Tiny. His family used to travel all over the place picking crops. The recruiting officer promised him a green card if he went for a stint in Vietnam. That’s the way they work to build up the Army, with lies. Lies! This kid had never owned two pairs of shoes and all of a sudden he’s getting an income for his family from the Army and he’s got two pairs of boots. He couldn’t understand English that well and I translated for him. They shot him, Teresa, while he was running out for some C rations that a chopper had dropped. We’re supposed to be helping the Vietnamese people with food and protection, but all I see us doing is scaring them and making their lives miserable. If you can find out what the hell we’re supposed to be doing out here, write me and tell me cause every time I turn around there’s one more order that doesn’t make sense. Like the other night, it was raining so hard, we were almost swimming in our holes, but the captain sent us out on patrol. Lots of guys around here are high on pot, booze or speed. I’m not saying I haven’t tried the stuff. Believe me after you’re out here a few nights, you start getting desperate. Damn, I’ve seen some stuff. I wish I could tell you the rest but it’s more like I would be telling you a nightmare.

  The word for sun in Vietnamese is mat trang, the word for day is ngay, the word for morning is buoi sang, the word for love is ting yeu. I can’t make sense of all the accents, they have more than we do. I can’t believe it that I’m in this crazy war on the other side of the world and people have words for everything we know. Remember that family I told you about? Well their daughter is the one teaching me Vietnamese. I wish I could tell you more about her, but when I think about her my mind goes blank, like I’m trying to reach something and I don’t know what it is. Is it love? I’ve never been in love so I don’t know. I would hate to be in love now, but I guess nobody controls love. Gotta go. I’m up for patrol. Search and destroy, that’s our mission. I wouldn’t want to meet Jesus Christ some night and have to explain what I was doing here. Do you think He would understand?

  Have you seen Trini? Tell Mom to get Paul to Trini’s gym. That old trainer is the best ever. He’ll be good for Paul with Dad the way he is. I guess our old man is still after what’s her name. Right? Gotta go. This stinking hole smells like shit, maybe some guy went in his pants. The pills for malaria do that to us. Did you get Chris’s letter? I got one from Espi and it felt good to hear from her. Pray for me. Light another candle.

  SWAK,

  Jesse

  I had forgotten about the woman who taught Jesse Vietnamese and about Trini, the one-eyed trainer who ended up shadow boxing at an old folks’ home.

  El Gato ·

  Jesse changed his name to El Gato when he started boxing for Trini Bustamante, the best trainer south of the river. Trini was a nino, a godfather to all his boxers. He worried about them, scolded them, mad
e them eat, made them sweat, and taught them to pick out his voice in a crowd of hundreds shouting at them during a fight. Trini was short like Jesse and could be loud or quiet to match the thoughts going through his head. He had trophies galore he collected from his vatos, the swinging, swaying dudes of the Mexican world. Alert, alive, fed on jumping beans, jalapeños, and tortillas made by their sainted mothers, his boys took championships all the way to New York City. Trini had them practice to the music of the Mexican Hat Dance to stir them up to their calling.

  “Ramirez, Ramirez! Your mommy smells like tequila! You look like you’re playing with dolls! Come on, ballerina, shake a leg!” He yelled all kinds of things at Jesse to test his concentration. “One wrong turn and you’re a goner. See this eye?” He would take off his sunglasses to show everyone the slit of eye on the left side of his face. He had refused surgery and wore the eye like a badge of courage.

  “The crowd will hound you! Los jodidos! That’s the way people are, bloodthirsty. They want you to look at them just to mess you up.” Trini danced away jabbing at the air, fighting an invisible opponent for his eye.

  “POW! POW! One for your precious momma who smells like tequila. One for your grandma who smokes marijuana, ha, ha!”

  Trini trained his boys at the Golden Gate Gym across the street from ol’ Perez’s Dry Cleaners. I always waved at ol’ Perez when I saw him standing outside his cleaners in his wrinkled clothes. “Es la verdad,” Mom used to say, “whatever a man knows how to do he never does for himself or his home. Look at your dad, works in construction and our house is falling down all around us!”

  I went to the Golden Gate Gym on afternoons Jesse practiced to watch him spar. “You’ve got to stay loose, ballerina,” Trini shouted. “Loose but quick…loose, loose, jab, jab…you’re getting it. Stay inside, stay inside…loose, loose, jab, jab.” It was a chant.

  Jesse taught me the four main punches, jab, right hand, uppercut, left, right hook. Jesse’s best combination was the overhand right, left hook. Drops of sweat dribbled from El Gato’s forehead and down his face when he was in the ring. His normally slender jaw bulged under his mouthpiece like a jack-o-lantern’s. His perfectly straight teeth were hidden underneath it. “Don’t forget your mouthpiece, Jesse. Your mouthpiece, your mouthpiece.” That was my worry. I didn’t want a toothless brother. I knew we didn’t have any money for dentists.

  The crack of leather on leather sounded like a firecracker had gone off under a pillow. It made me nervous, especially if Jesse was getting the worst of it. Usually he wasn’t. He took the name El Gato. It fit him because Jesse was dark, quick, and sly like a cat with its ears flinching and its body ready to leap. Trini gave him an old speed bag to practice on at home. Gates, Willy, Faustino, and Chris would come over and spend hours, taking turns on the speed bag hanging from a wooden beam in my dad’s old garage. I brought out towels for them to wipe their sweat and water to drink. I practiced my cheerleader moves with Priscilla while they boxed. Ricky Navarro from next door came over a few times but said he was a lover, not a fighter.

  I liked watching the guys, especially Chris. Of all Jesse’s friends, he was the best-looking. He was taller than Jesse, light, his jaw square, his hair dark, wavy. His face looked chiseled, like the faces I had seen on Greek heroes in my history book. His dad didn’t let him box, because he said there was already enough fighting in the world. In high school, Chris moved to Albuquerque, and I didn’t see him again until the night before he and Jesse left for Fort Benning.

  The last time Jesse boxed was at University Park where they set up a ring for the Metropolitan State Tournament. Frank Rodriquez, a famous boxer, came by to hand out trophies. The winners were slated to go to Las Vegas and fight national champions. Mom and Nana came that night to watch. It was the first and last time they ever sat in the audience. Jesse boxed featherweight against Andres El Animal, who was known to let loose in such a way that the other boxer had to fight for his life. Nana held onto her Virgen medallion the whole time Jesse was in the ring, holding it up to her lips every once in a while. Dad had bought popcorn for Paul and Priscilla. Somehow Mom got so excited she ended up flipping the popcorn bag into the air. Some of it landed in her hair and still she kept yelling, “Get him, mijo! Ay, Dios mio, I can’t take another minute!”

  Actually, the fight didn’t last very long, but Mom said it was the longest fight of her life. When Jesse went down, Dad had to tackle Mom to keep her from rushing into the ring. Jesse left for Vietnam with the scar Andres El Animal gave him over his left eyebrow. It was the only fight Jesse ever lost, until he got to Vietnam.

  • ALL THE GUYS from the Golden Gate Gym showed up the night we said good-bye to Jesse. Trini came by showing off his bad eye, telling the guys that’s what happens to you when you don’t concentrate. Los vatos wanted to take a few shots at El Gato before he left, teasing, jabbing him right and left. A mass of relatives, primos, tías, tíos, crowded around Jesse, toasting beer cans for his safe return and making speeches about everything crazy they remembered about him. His gabacho friends from college were there, burning their tongues on Mom’s hot tamales and loving it. Mom, Nana, Irene, and Tía Katia piled up tamales, rice, beans, salads, filling up bowls with menudo. Even ol’ Duke got into the act, knocking kids down in the backyard for scraps of food.

  Music was playing, playing like crazy. “Solitary Man” over and over again, “Blue Velvet,” “Louie, Louie,” “Respect.” Jesse laughed, talked with his friends, Gates, Willy, Chris, and Manuel, who had a deferment to stay in school. Manuel said he loved me, and I ignored him. I wanted to pull on his ears like a puppy dog.

  Chris came by from Albuquerque to leave on the same plane with Jesse. His breath smelled like Doublemint and beer, lots of beer. “Your sister, the cheerleader. Sing me a cheer, Teresa!” I was afraid of him, afraid of the urgency I sensed from him, afraid of life and death. I might never see him again. We might cling too long, cling too strong. They were both going so far away. There was a thud in me. Something that hit a brick wall when I thought of Vietnam. The word Vietnam rose in my mind, and I pushed it away, flesh and blood was still real to me. I ran up to Jesse all night, touching him, his face, his shoulder, sparring with him, playing tag, he was home base. I tell you I was crazy. Jesse was slipping away from me. I’d have to watch the news every night to try to catch a glimpse of him on TV, where figures were only six inches tall.

  It was at Jesse’s farewell party that I started to repeat words in my head like a singsong chant, like El Ganso who sang instead of talked. I didn’t want to feel like me, like Teresa, named after Saint Teresa, the patron saint of Avila, Spain who ran around building convents, levitating in the air, and her nuns had to grab her by the heels to keep her grounded.

  Jesse was this skinny kid, in my mind, with bony elbows that stuck up under his shirt and knobby knees that bulged under his Levi’s. It was impossible that he’d carry an M-16 and use it to kill somebody.

  It was winter outside, January. The house was warm, too warm, from the steam made by big pots on the stove. I wanted it to be the celebration of La Virgen de Guadalupe all over again so Jesse and I could run up and down the steps at St. Anthony’s and breathe hazy circles in the frosty morning air.

  Nana Esther sat in the bedroom with the veladoras flickering around her, the matriarch, queenly. She wanted to give Jesse her blessing, the blessing of a holy woman, a Guadalupana who had won the favor of the Mother of God. She didn’t turn on the ceiling light, only the candles, she knew the prayer, La Oración del Justo Juez, the Prayer to the Just Judge, by heart:

  Santísimo Justo Juez, hijo de Santa Maria, que mi cuerpo no se asombre, ni mi sangre sea vertida. Que mis enemigos no me vean, ni sus ejercitos me dañen.

  Con el manto que cubijo a Jesucristo cubre mi cuerpo que mis enemigo no me ataquen.

  Con las bendiciones del Padre, el Hijo, y el Espiritu Santo concedeme paz y alegría. Amen.

  Most Holy Judge, son of Saint Mary, do not let my body be harmed or m
y blood be spilled. Let not my enemies see me nor their armies hurt me.

  With the robe that covered Our Lord Jesus Christ, cover my body so that I will never be attacked by my enemies.

  With the blessing of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, bring me peace and happiness. Amen.

  “Keep it in your wallet, yes, please, mijito. God will protect you. The prayer won’t fail you.” Later she gave it to Chris, to Willy, to Gates. Jesse knelt in front of Nana, and she extended her hand over him. “I bless you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. May God get you safely to Vietnam and bring you back home again!”

  Her voice broke. She held him in her arms, his head on her lap. He was her baby, still. Mom and Dad knelt down with Jesse, crying, hugging him. I stood over them, tears falling, looking at the throbbing heart of familia.

  Yellowhair ·

  At Doña Hermina’s I place a call to Elsa in Phoenix. It’s early Monday morning, the second of June. The day is pleasantly warm. A breeze is blowing, stirring up the treetops and clumps of tall grass that grow along the canals.

  “You got a call from your lawyer, Sam Diamond,” Elsa tells me. “He’s mad at you because you left town without telling him. He says he can’t postpone the court date, and that a warrant might be issued for your arrest.”

  “Tell him he better get me out of this! What am I paying him for? Slick Sam! He knows I had to take this trip.”

  “Wanna talk to Dad?”