Amigoland

  “He bites?” the old man asked.

  “Not anymore.” She pried open the dog’s mouth so he could see the gaps between its missing teeth. “Those days have passed.”

  The old man wasn’t so convinced and kept his distance.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the woman said, then took his unsteady hand in hers and together they stroked the dog’s head and back. “You see?” The dog sat with one leg curled under and sticking out between the other three legs, and then after a while it let itself drop to the ground and lay in the dirt.

  Socorro and Don Celestino sat under the tree on a wooden bench while Don Fidencio sat on a kitchen chair with its front legs wrapped with duct tape. Isidro had stayed in the taxi, where he was now resting. With most of the clouds having drifted, the large tree provided enough shade for them to sit comfortably. The old man gazed at the massive trunk and its horizontal roots that stretched outward from the base like the hoof of some prehistoric creature that had come back to roam the earth.

  “But last night you said you would call in the morning,” Don Celestino said, continuing their hushed conversation from the car.

  “If it was so important, you should’ve called her.”

  “She’s your mother. She’s not related to me, remember?”

  “Yes, I know,” she answered, though not as hushed.

  There was more they both wanted to say, but just then the screen door opened and the woman came out, guiding her grandmother by the arm. The two women shuffled forward in halting steps, as if the grandmother were dragging a heavy load and having to gather her strength between each stride. At first her milky eyes stayed pointed downward, until the left one began drifting over to one side and then up toward the thick branches of the tree. Her silver hair was parted in the middle, and in the back formed into one long braid that reached her waist. The flowery housedress fit loose around her body but stretched out for her sagging arms.

  Her granddaughter helped her to sit down in the one remaining chair and then find the first waiting hand. “Socorro De La Peña,” her guest said. “Thank you for coming outside to meet us.”

  “How rare it is for people to come visit our home.” The old woman glanced over her shoulder, unaware that she was looking at the tree.

  “And your name?” Socorro asked.

  “I have been here so long and raised so many children that everyone calls me Mamá Nene.” She seemed to want to say more but stopped so she could reach out for a cobweb she had noticed hanging in front of her and then did it again, several more times, gently plucking at each thread of the web, before her granddaughter could take hold of her hand and bring it back down so she could continue greeting her guests.

  Don Fidencio looked over at his brother, who was staring back at him. He could already imagine what he would be saying in the taxi, that the whole trip had been a waste of his time, all this way so they could meet an old blind woman who didn’t make any sense, especially when there was a building full of them back where they had started the trip.

  “We just stopped by to see the ranchito and meet some people,” Don Celestino said, “before we have to head back.”

  “Why rush off so fast, after all the effort it must have taken for you to get here?” the old woman replied, shaking his hand. “Besides, Carmen says that you’re a Rosales, like us.”

  “Yes, Celestino Rosales.” He patted her hand before making room for his brother. “This was something we all wanted to do, to come and visit where our family came from.”

  “And you are right about the effort to get here,” Don Fidencio said as he took his turn shaking her hand, “but I knew we would find it.”

  “You traveled a far distance, then?” Mamá Nene was still holding on to his hand with both of hers.

  “Yes, for me, very far,” he answered. “I am not so young anymore to be traveling these long distances. You know how it is, getting on and off these buses, never stopping long enough to rest.”

  “Then you should sit for a while, no?” she offered. “When Carmen told me there were some people by the name of Rosales, I said to her, ‘Since when has a Rosales come this far to visit us?’”

  “And to think that at first these two wanted to stay and not come. ‘But how can we, Fidencio? Look how far it is, and then at your age!’ As if I were already dying. I had to lower my head like a calf they wanted to drag away from its mother. And this I told them from the beginning, that we needed to go, no matter what, that it was important, that I had made a promise to come back. If they’d let me, I would have walked all the way here. In my life I’ve walked farther than most people will ever know.”

  Mamá Nene reached out for her granddaughter’s hand. “Did you hear him?”

  “Yes, what a journey to make, and so far.”

  “More than two days on the bus,” Don Celestino added. “There was no direct service from Matamoros, so then we had to go part of the way on one bus, and without papers because the office was closed, and then stay in a hotel because there were no buses until later that night.”

  “No, the name, the name.” The old woman turned back toward her granddaughter. “I thought you said you were listening?”

  “I heard him,” Carmen said. “How funny, no?”

  “And why funny? You say it like it was just another name, another Rosales.”

  The granddaughter rubbed her shoulders and smiled at their guests. “These people only stopped by to say hello.”

  “Of all the places they could have stopped to say hello, and then with such sacrifice to get here?” she answered. “You think I would not recognize the name Fidencio Rosales?”

  “Yes, but you are confusing the man with someone else. Remember that the one they took was many, many years ago?”

  “Then why did he come back? For what?”

  “That was our grandfather, the one you want to remember,” Don Celestino tried to explain. “We came to see the place where he was from.”

  “We never stopped from hoping, always waiting for this day,” the old woman said, her voice quivering as if she might not be able to continue. “My father, he always told us that the boy would come back.”

  “We can leave if this is going to upset her.” Socorro was standing near the granddaughter. “We didn’t know this would happen.”

  “She gets confused, but then it usually passes.”

  “I know who you are.” The old woman groped about until Don Fidencio again offered her his hand. “I know, I know.”

  “No, señora,” Don Celestino said. “The boy you are thinking of was our grandfather. My brother was named after him. There are two Fidencios, you understand? The one who went away, and my brother, who is the grandson of that boy. Two different Fidencios, the old one and the young one.”

  The old woman nodded and smiled but without looking in the direction of the person speaking. “My father was also named after you. That was why he never lost the hope that the uncle he had heard so much about would one day escape and return to this place.”

  “Forgive her,” the granddaughter said. “Sometimes I have trouble changing her mind.”

  “And you, talking to them like if I wasn’t here!” She brushed her granddaughter’s hands away from her shoulder. “I know what I’m saying.”

  Don Celestino stood up first and signaled to his brother that it was time to leave. Socorro grabbed her purse from the back of the chair where it had been hanging.

  “We waited,” the old woman mumbled. “That I do know, that we waited.”

  Don Fidencio looked at her for a moment. It did seem such a far distance to travel only to now turn around and head back. They’d been rushing for the last four days. Rushing to leave the nursing home, rushing to pick up the girl, rushing to cross the bridge, rushing to the pharmacy, rushing to the bus station, rushing to get ready in the morning, rushing to find this place. What would it hurt to stay for a while longer and visit? She was still holding his hand.

  “How nice to arrive somewhere and know peopl
e have been waiting for you,” he said.

  “We knew that with time you would find your way back. I remember they used to talk about how smart a boy you were.”

  Don Celestino motioned to his brother, trying to get his attention, but the old man ignored him altogether.

  “So many years since the afternoon they took me from my home. It was difficult, a long journey back to this place. But I needed to return before it was too late.”

  “My grandfather was Magarito, your younger brother — the one they were able to hide when the Indians came. His son was my father. I remember at the end of every day he would look in that direction, to the north.” She paused to point off into the distance. “One day I asked my father why, ‘Why always that way?’ and he told me it was an old habit, from watching his own father do the same thing. He would stand there and wait until it was dark and he could see no more.”

  “Yes, of course, my little brother. At least he was able to escape.” He glanced over at Don Celestino, who was sitting again since it appeared they weren’t leaving anytime soon. “But how many were there that died the day they took me from the circus?”

  “You mean to say the festival for the harvest?”

  “There was a bear, I remember,” Don Fidencio said. “A black one they kept on a rope and that did tricks, made the people laugh.”

  “A stranger, a foreigner that nobody had seen before or knew from where he came, some said he was a Russian and others said he was French, but it was on the last day that he showed up. My grandfather said he spoke another tongue nobody had heard, and the only way he knew for how to communicate was to pass around his dirty hat. He had brought the animals, but it was for the festival.” The old woman tilted her head down toward her dress and held a piece of frayed fabric between her thumb and forefinger.

  “And the others?” Don Fidencio asked.

  “They tore off the top of tío Osvaldo’s head, and when he was still alive, I heard, but from other people, not from my grandfather. There were some things he would not talk about.”

  “Of what he saw?”

  “That, and that your mother had hidden him in the hay that the stranger had brought for the animals. He always felt bad that she’d had time to do this for him and not for you. Maybe both of you would have been safe.”

  “She did what she could, my mother. She held on to her children the best that she could. I never blamed her or my brother for how things turned out. There was nothing more they could have done.”

  The old woman smiled. “But tell me, why did it take you so long?”

  He looked over to Don Celestino for some idea of how to answer, but his brother only raised his eyebrows, the same as the old woman.

  “No, if someone should have felt bad, it was me. I was the one who saw the Indians when they were far away, but for some reason I stayed with my mouth shut. I watched them getting closer and closer until it was too late, and then they took us away. A cousin of my father had moved to the other side, and he was the one who took me in. As far as we knew, nobody had survived the tragedy that day.” He paused to shake his head for emphasis, then realized the old woman wouldn’t know either way. “And by the time I was old enough to come back, I had already married and made a life for myself. But I never stopped telling the story to my family, to my children, to my grandchildren. Even then I kept wanting to come back, but the years, they got away from me.”

  The old woman half smiled and made as if she were gazing toward the sky. “Still, late or early, I give thanks to God that He brought you all this way.”

  Don Celestino stood up and held his hand out for Socorro. “I wish we could stay longer, but we only came for a short visit.”

  “All this way and so quickly you want to leave again?” the old woman said. “I was thinking you would stay the rest of the day, maybe even spend the night. We have room for all of you. Tell them, Carmen. Take them and show them where they can rest after coming so far.” She turned to one side and then the other, as if unsure where she’d left her granddaughter.

  Socorro was helping the old man to his feet. “We would stay longer, but now after four days we need to go back.”

  “And how can you compare your four days to how long ago it was that they took the boy away from here?” The old woman shook her head.

  “Why not at least stay for lunch?” Carmen asked. “I can make more nopalitos con papas for everyone.”

  “That would be nice,” Don Celestino said, “except we have a driver who brought us here and he must be in a hurry to get back.”

  But when they looked toward the road, Isidro had reclined his seat and was sleeping peacefully behind the wheel.

  Most of the small kitchen was visible with only the light from the faint bulb above the sink. Carmen lit the gas stove and heated the two covered pans that sat on the burners. With a match she lit a third burner for the comal so she could make the corn tortillas. On the counter sat a molcajete half full with a pulpy chile verde.

  “If we had more people come to visit, maybe her mind wouldn’t get away from her as much.” She handed Socorro one end of a tablecloth so they could spread it over the long wooden table.

  “For things that happened so long ago?”

  “More because she has trouble remembering what was good.”

  Together they scooted the table across the cement floor until it was more toward the center of the room.

  “But all of us pass through times like that, no?”

  “Yes, I suppose, but it gets worse when it feels like all you can remember was what made you sad.”

  Socorro took care of setting the plates and glasses on the table, and adding a fork and paper napkin from a roll on the counter to each setting. When the food was almost ready, Carmen brought out a pitcher of fresh orange juice from the refrigerator. She was about to call the others when Socorro asked to use her bathroom and then followed her upstairs, taking care with each step since there was no railing or anything to hold on to until the cement stairs reached the beginning of the second level and the door to the bedroom. A brand-new air conditioner, its thick cord lying unplugged to one side, jutted out from one of the windows. On the night-stand sat a portable stereo the size of a small suitcase, and at the foot of the bed two fruit crates held up a brand-new television. The music was turned down on the stereo, but the display panel continued to pulsate with a prism of colors. The only other piece of furniture was a small dresser topped with six or seven framed photos.

  “Is this your family?”

  “My son and his wife in Chicago, but the baby I still need to meet. And this one over here is my husband from the last time he came here for a few days.”

  In the photo they were standing outside near the tree and he had his arm wrapped around her shoulder, though neither one of them was smiling for the camera.

  “It must be hard to be so far away.”

  “I had to accept it. Worse was when my sons told me that they wanted to follow him. And what could I do, if already they were men? Sometimes it feels like that’s all I do, wait and wait for them to come back.” She ran her hand along the edge of a smaller frame.

  After she showed her guest the bathroom, Carmen walked back down to finish preparing the meal. Socorro washed her face and neck in the sink and then used a little water to pat down her hair. With the taxi ride and sitting out in the yard she could feel the thin layer of dirt, most of which was gathering into a grayish soapy water in the sink. Before long she heard Carmen calling everyone inside. As much time as it usually took Don Fidencio to eat, she wondered how long they would be here. She thought that later, when they got back to town, she would go ahead and buy a phone card. Her mother would be upset that she hadn’t called again, but more just because she had gone on the trip. She wasn’t interested in discussing this with her; she was calling only to let her know that they were coming home tomorrow. Later she would have to promise never to do anything like this again. For a few weeks she might have to come home a little earlier, bef
ore dark, just to not worry her. She could take care of herself, but her mother must have still been concerned those times she arrived after dark, as she had been doing for the last few months.

  She ran her fingers through her hair one last time and was about to use a plastic clip, but then remembered that he preferred her hair down. As soon as she had it down, though, she wanted it up. She brushed it back and for a while tried to find some way to keep her hair up but also down, neither one of which was pleasing to her now.

  They sat on long wooden benches that were on either side of the kitchen table. Sunlight now flooded in from the side door, which had stayed open with only the screen to keep the flies out. Carmen served each of the plates with the nopalitos con papas, then pulled the last two tortillas off the comal, wrapped them in a kitchen towel, and placed them at the center of the table. Her grandmother waited patiently for her to explain where everything was on her plate.

  “There’s no comparing a meal made at home,” Socorro said once she had taken her first bite. “All these days we were going to restaurants or buying food to take on the bus.”

  “Maybe this will convince you to stay longer,” Mamá Nene said. “We have waited such a long time for this man to return and you want to take him away again so soon.”

  “Believe me, I am in no hurry to leave, not after what it took us to get here,” Don Fidencio said.

  “Then stay the night and you can rest here. Carmen will fix up the other bedroom for you.”

  He looked to his brother.

  “Remember that we need to get back, Fidencio.” He motioned toward the side door and the road, where Isidro was still sleeping in the taxi.

  “But this afternoon?”

  Don Celestino glanced over at Socorro and then finally looked back at his brother. “No, probably not today. But for sure in the morning.”

  “So you come for him early tomorrow, now that you know how to find the house, and from here you can leave to the bus station.” The old woman cuffed the table with the palm of her hand. “That way at least we can hear more of his story.”