Let Their Spirits Dance

  “What for? He’s going to court with Sandra, for God’s sake.”

  “Mom, he still loves you.”

  I laugh, remembering the old ladies, and how they laughed when they thought of men and love. “Loves me? If he loved me, he’d try to get me out of this trouble. Most of it is his fault anyway. Nice try, Elsa. I tried all kinds of things, too, that I thought would make my mom and dad happy, and nothing ever worked.” I feel angry with myself, and wonder why I wasted my time fighting over Ray in the first place.

  Elsa tells me she’s been watching us on TV, and that some news stations are charting our route. “Get ready, Mom,” she says. “It looks like everybody in America is going on this trip with you.”

  “That’s scary,” I tell her. “I wanted publicity, but this is too much.” We say good-bye, and I’m left worrying about the publicity Elsa just told me about. One thing is certain. If there’s a warrant out for my arrest, they won’t have any trouble finding me.

  I call Jimenez Elementary to ask Shirley how things are going, and Clara answers.

  “Where are you, Teresa?” she asks. “Everybody in Phoenix is watching the news about your family. The kids at school are excited. Your class is writing you letters.”

  “Letters? That’s wonderful! But where will they send them? We’re in Albuquerque. We’ll be heading out today and stop for the night in Colorado Springs. Have Lorena Padilla, my assistant, collect the letters. I’ll pick them up when I get back to Phoenix.” I stop myself from saying any more, remembering I’m talking to Clara, the rumor queen.

  “Guess who’s not here anymore?” Clara asks. Her voice rises with excitement.

  “Mr. H., who else?”

  “Oh, you should have seen him at the last faculty meeting! He looked so pathetic, but you know he’s a back-stabber. I never liked him.”

  “He didn’t want me to tell Jesse’s story to my class. That’s what I remember.”

  “Well, good riddance then! Maybe they’ll send us somebody who can lead the school, but I doubt it. Everything is politics, you know that as well as I do. Anyway, let’s get to the good part. Met anybody interesting yet, Teresa? You know the saying…so many men, so little time!”

  “Huh, no. Listen, is Shirley there? I want to ask her if there’s anything else I have to do. I handed in my report cards and my end-of-year check-out form. Lorena Padilla’s got the classroom keys.”

  “Oh, Shirley? She’s visiting her mother in Wisconsin. She should be back next week. Everything’s in order, Teresa. But let’s get to the good part. Any new man on the horizon?”

  “Listen, I gotta go. Say ‘hi’ to everybody for me.” Ending my conversation with Clara is like springing out of a trap. Now I’m worried thinking who we’ll get to take Mr. H.’s place. I can see Annie Get Your Guns and the rest of the teachers cheering their victory. It might be short-lived after they see Mr. H.’s replacement.

  • BEFORE BREAKFAST is served, we get a call from a local news station.

  “How did they find out where we’re staying?” I ask Michael.

  “They saw us last night in Old Town. I couldn’t tell if they were reporters or tourists. I guess they were reporters.”

  “Yeah, right, you couldn’t tell who they were.”

  “They asked us questions,” Angelo says, “lots of questions, and Michael showed them our itiner…how do you say it?”

  “You mean our itinerary?”

  “Yeah. The map of where we’re going.”

  “Oh, great!”

  Chris walks in with a newspaper in his hand. “Look, Teresa, here’s a story about your family.” I look at bold letters taking up one side of the front page: RAMIREZ FAMILY VISITS ALBUQUERQUE. There are pictures of our vehicles and of the kids shopping in Old Town.

  “I’m getting nervous about all this, Chris.”

  Mom and Irene walk in. “What’s making you nervous?” Mom asks.

  “Stories about us, Mom. Publicity. People talking.” I look out the front window and see a pick-up with the words NEWS CHANNEL 10 on its door. “Here we go.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mom says. “What can they do to us, pobrecitos, they have to make a living. Remember that poor girl who talked to me at the house?”

  “You mean Holly Stevens? She’s the one responsible for all this. And she’s not a poor girl, Mom. These people are out to sell their stations and newspapers.” Lisa and Lilly run in from the front yard.

  “Mom, the news people want to know how Nana’s doing,” Lilly says.

  “See, mija, they care.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Here, Alicia,” Irene says, helping Mom to the window. “Stand here, and wave to them.” Manuel and Priscilla walk in. “What’s going on?” Priscilla asks.

  “Nana’s waving at the news people,” Lisa says.

  “Oh my God! How are we ever gonna get to the Wall with the whole country chasing after us?”

  “Don’t get excited,” Manuel says. “They’ll tire out. The media is fickle. Something else will attract their attention.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I tell him.

  We sit down to breakfast, and Queta already has a plate ready for Gates. They look at each other as if they’re school kids who just came in from a first date. Doña Hermina watches her daughter closely, but doesn’t say anything.

  Paul and Donna walk in with Susie and Willy. Everybody’s taking a place at the tables. Priscilla and I help Queta set out the huevos rancheros, potatoes, ham, salsa, sopaipillas, juice, and coffee. The food smells delicious, and everybody digs in. For dessert, there’s pan de huevo, a variety of Mexican pastry, fruit empanadas, rolls, and gingerbread cochitos like the one Jesse ate on the plane to Vietnam.

  After breakfast, I get a call from Espi.

  “I just talked to Elsa,” she says. “Your attorney called and told her he just got word that Sandra’s dropped the charges on you.”

  “She did?” A sense of relief flows through me.

  “Yeah, she said she didn’t want to be blamed for putting the daughter of a hero in jail.”

  “The daughter of a what?”

  “A hero! Don’t you know? Your mom is being called a hero, the first Nana hero this country has ever known, publicly, that is.”

  “My little stubborn mom is a hero? What makes her a hero?”

  “Are you kidding me? She’s taking her life into her own hands by making this trip. She’s answering her son’s call to get to the Wall. This is a life-and-death situation. Then there’s the whole thing about the money. How many other families did the government cheat? Poor families, minority families, victimized. That’s what the stories are saying. Your mom’s a symbol of all the other moms who lost their sons in Vietnam.” She pauses and waits for me to say something. “Teresa, are you still there? This should make you happy. What’s wrong?”

  “We’re a week away from the Wall. I don’t know what’s gonna happen. She might make it, she might not. All these memories coming at us! Is Mom strong enough to take all this?”

  “You told me not too long ago, not to be so uptight, and to stop worrying. Now I’m telling you, Teresa, get a hold of yourself. Things will work out. You’re doing what your Mom wants you to do. Now, what about Chris? How’s he doing?”

  “He’s OK.”

  “He’s OK, and you’re crying?”

  “It’s a lot more than that, Espi. It’s everything. Like the stories say, it’s life and death.”

  • BEFORE WE LEAVE ALBUQUERQUE Queta tells me her mother wants Mom to meet Palmira, la curandera. The old woman is famous all over New Mexico, Queta says, for the cures she works on people. Even she has gone to her to do a plática, which is a conversation, and can be compared to a therapy session. La plática centers in on patients’ needs, physical, mental, and spiritual. A curandera never heals without taking into account the whole person.

  “We had Doña Carolina in El Cielito. She was our curandera,” I tell Queta, “and I knew an old man who claimed he was a tl
achisqui, a seer, like a wise man of the Aztec nation. Jesse and I used to visit him over by El Río Salado. He told us about our history, and all kinds of stories about the ancient world. He had lots of cures, yerbas, teas, you know, like they use in healing. When he looked at you, it seemed he was looking right through you.”

  “Palmira could be his twin.”

  “That mystical?”

  “Yeah. Spooky sometimes, if you ask me.”

  One hour before we set out for Colorado Springs, Palmira, la curandera, shows up. I notice people don’t call her Doña Palmira, just Palmira, as if she’s some kind of goddess. This is a special visit, Doña Hermina explains, because Palmira never goes to anyone’s house. People come to her, and many do, hundreds every year.

  Palmira walks in, and she reminds me somehow of the reeds that grew along the banks of El Río Salado. There is a quality about her that bends this way and that like the movement of the reeds when the wind swept over them, or when El Río Salado overflowed, drowning them for days. There is power in the old lady. She could bend and rise again, drown and come back to life. I’m two heads taller than she and have to stoop to give her a hug. She’s wearing a simple dress with tiny black and white half moons all over it, and black shoes with white socks. On her finger, where her wedding band should be, is a ruby-red ring. Around her neck is a chain with a medallion of La Virgen and a gold crucifix. Her white hair is pulled up into a crown of braids piled on top of her head. She reaches out with freckled arms to hold me briefly.

  “You’ve touched the ancient world,” she says to me. “How have you done this?” Palmira’s eyes, shiny, black pupils, look deeply into mine, and I don’t know what response to give. Once again, she says to me, “What power have you met? Cual poder?”

  Finally, I realize what she’s asking. “Don Florencío,” I tell her.

  “Don Florencío, who?”

  “A tlachisqui of the Aztecas.”

  “I haven’t heard that word since I was a child. Tlachisqui.” She repeats it softly. “Tlachisqui.”

  “He gave me a tea to drink, yoloxochitl.”

  “Como no, of course, to heal a broken heart. The loss of your brother, no?”

  “Yes. And my voice. I couldn’t speak. He healed me so I could talk again.”

  “Muy bien, very good, always good to regain something lost por un susto. Susto is trauma to the soul. The soul will hide and be unable to grow until it is recovered and the trauma is healed. Voice comes not only from the throat, but from the heart and soul as well.” I want to ask Palmira about the susto my mother suffered when I almost drowned in El Río Salado, but without understanding how, I know the time is not right.

  “Teresa, you are named after a great saint. Teresa of Avila. She is my patron saint. My middle name is Teresa. Teresa of Avila, tan poderosa! I rely on her many times to guide me to know God’s will, for as you know, all great healing comes from God. We are only instruments.” Palmira is silent for a few seconds. She looks at me intently. “There is still a part of your soul you must bring home. La alma needs to be coaxed sometimes.” Palmira turns to Mom.

  “Come with me, Doña Ramirez,” she says, and leads Mom to Doña Hermina’s bedroom, where they can speak in private.

  Later Mom told me Palmira gave her a limpia. She swept a bunch of fragrant herbs over her body, romero, and ruda, rosemary and rue, while she recited various prayers. Then she passed an egg over her body, to uncover the root of Mom’s problem. The egg was cracked into a bowl, and its elements read by Palmira. She told Mom she was suffering from una tristeza grande, a great sadness which came about through susto. Jesse’s death cost my mother the loss of the part of her soul that was joined to Jesse—the mother’s love that wanted to protect him from all harm. Guilt was the consequence, and great regret, and the song in my mother’s heart was snatched away. All this, Palmira read of my mother’s life. I marveled that she could be so right. An image of Don Florencío emerged in my mind, arms outstretched, sprinkling sacred cornmeal in the four directions, a gift to the gods, he would say, for sharing such knowledge with mere mortals.

  • OTHERS ARE TRAVELING with us now, Yellowhair and his mother Sarah. They’re Zuñi Indians from the reservation west of Albuquerque. Chris knows Yellowhair from his days in Vietnam. Yellowhair’s brother, Strong Horse, known by his American name, Eddie Bika, was killed in Vietnam in 1970. It’s a miracle, Yellowhair’s mother says, that her son saw Chris only two days before we arrived in Albuquerque. She claims God answered her prayer, maybe it was even El Santo Niño. That intrepid child again! The Zuñis hold celebrations in honor of the Christ Child, making new shoes for him every year and guarding Him in their homes against members of the tribe who attempt a kidnapping of the Child if given the opportunity. All is done in the spirit of good play.

  Of course we’ll let Yellowhair and his mother go with us, my mother says. Why not? We have enough money. Manuel doesn’t like the idea of renting another van for the Bikas. We’d need another vehicle anyway to make room for Chris. Manuel’s angry that Chris has volunteered to drive Mom’s van to keep her company the rest of the way. Really it’s me he wants to keep company, but Manuel says nothing more about it. He’s good at isolating, and I’m good at letting him do it. Priscilla says Manuel can help Paul drive the van they’re riding in. There’s nothing strong enough to separate me and Chris.

  Everything has an appetite, Don Florencío always said. I’m understanding appetite the longer I stare at Chris. This never happened to me with Ray. Ray was the one who unwound the bandages I wrapped my soul in after Jesse died. Once my soul was free again, there was nothing else for Ray to do. The Guadalupanas sense how things are between Chris and me. They’re old women who led strange love lives. I don’t know if they ever got excited or went to bed with no underwear. It’s almost blasphemous to think these thoughts about them when I see them sitting in the back seat, dressed in their old ladies’ clothes, their gold medallions shining on their flat chests. Then I see Irene whispering to Mom, and I don’t think they’re talking about La Virgen.

  Yellowhair’s mother tells me she got her name from a missionary who lived on the reservation. Her mother named her after the first person who walked into their house after her daughter’s birth. “I’m glad it wasn’t a man,” she says, “or I would be Samson instead of Sarah!” Her son was named Yellowhair because his grandfather had a dream the night before his birth of a stalk of corn with a child’s face on it. He figured his grandson wanted to be named Yellowhair in honor of the cornstalk.

  Now we really look like a United Nations entourage. Gates and Queta found an African flag at a souvenir shop and now that’s sticking out the side of Willy’s car, flapping in rhythm to the Chinese flag. I didn’t realize the South African colors are red, white, and blue like the U.S. flag. The Chinese flag is solid red with yellow stars on one end. The flags wave together as we travel, U.S., Mexican, Chinese, South African, making bold splashes of color everywhere we go. Gates bought a book on Nelson Mandela and suddenly claims an allegiance to South Africa. He says he’ll finish reading the book before we get to the Wall.

  Queta would have gone with us to the Wall, but her mother went into one of her dizzy spells, and she had to stay home. I’m wondering if her mother’s dizzy spell is the way Doña Hermina keeps Queta home. Gates promised he’d stay in touch by phone. I’m hoping he’s staying in touch with Erica, too. I don’t want her appearing in D.C. unexpectedly.

  Yellowhair is displaying two feathered wands on their gray Toyota van. One is blue for the Sun Father, the other is yellow for the Moon Mother. He says the Zuñis were never conquered by the Spaniards, or anyone else for that matter. Fray Marcos de Niza, the Spanish missionary, believed the Zuñi villages were the fabled Seven Cities of Cibola, the cities of gold. His famous guide, Esteban, was killed at Zuñi for his big mouth and insulting ways. Other Spanish explorers stayed clear of the Zuñis, once they discovered the Indians didn’t take much to strangers.

  Yellowhair and Sar
ah look more like siblings than mother and son. Their brown faces are smooth, almost wrinkle-free. I can’t tell if they ever squint in the bright sun, or frown when they’re angry. I look closely at them, and wonder who else will join us.

  • THE NIGHT BEFORE we leave Albuquerque I have another one of my Río Salado dreams. This time I see Jesse’s body coming home in an airplane, flying over the Pacific. The plane has a single engine like the kind used in World War I. The bottom of the airplane opens and his coffin drops into the sea. It’s so real, I feel the water splash on my face. I jump on his coffin, as if I’m riding on El Ganso’s neck and nearly fall off when I see the lid open just a crack and blood ooze down the side of the coffin and into the sea. I wake up trying to save myself from falling into the sea. The dream reminds me of my baby sister, Inez. I’m running away from her again. I never meant to give my mother el susto, the fear that caused Inez’s death.

  Time Warp ·

  On our way out of Albuquerque, I spot a sign on a local church, a framed wooden structure sandwiched between a residential home and a parking lot overgrown with weeds: PARE DE SUFRIR (Stop Suffering). I point it out to Chris.

  “See, they want us to stop suffering.”

  “How?” he asks. “Suffering is in our bones. It’s the fatalism of the Indians. The Indians are selfish about suffering. They’ve made an art of it.”

  “Why does it appeal to them?”

  “You mean why does it appeal to us? We’re Indian, too. I guess we’ve done it so long, been oppressed so many years, we’re fish out of water without it. There’s beauty in it, too. How would we know joy if we didn’t suffer? There would be no measuring rod.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. Stoicism, silence, and laughter belong to those who know both joy and suffering. Hiding from suffering will not make it go away. Native Americans are wise to make it a part of life. It’s there whether we like it or not, an ongoing Purgatory that keeps us reaching for grace, a bit confused, unsure why we’re suffering in the first place. Hell’s suffering, I imagine, is jagged pain with no end in sight. Our suffering is jagged pain with a purpose. We know we’ll come to the end of it and learn something.