Rain God

by Arturo Islas

  “They’ve ruined this plaza,” Mama Chona said. “You should have seen it years ago, Miguelito.” There was a rare tone of affection in her voice, and she was looking at him strangely. “There is a fountain in San Miguel de Allende,” she added, then stopped. He did not understand. Mama Chona took his hand, as she always did when they were among strangers. No one was going to shoot this child in the streets.

  * * *

  After her eightieth birthday, Mama Chona returned to her girlhood more often. She conquered time by denying its existence, and Mema would find her awake or asleep at odd hours of the day and night. Miguel Grande and his brothers-in-law had put enough money together to rent a small apartment, and Mema, now in her fifties, left her life across the river and came to live with her mother. Mama Chona was no longer able to care for herself and the family would not think of putting her in a nursing home.

  Miguel Grande visited his mother nearly every day during her last ten years; Jesus Maria and Eduviges phoned often but seldom visited. They spoke civilly, even nicely, to their fallen sister whose assault on the family pride, more than her unforgivable sin, had wounded them deeply. That pride never seemed affected by time either.

  Even the seasons—“In the desert, there are two seasons,” Mama Chona told them, “very hot and very cold”—no longer touched the old lady. On several occasions, Mema found her mother outside without her shawl on icy days, watering the flower beds.

  “Mamá, what are you doing?”

  “Taking care of the flowers. Without me, everything would die.”

  Another time, she startled JoEl in the dead of winter by saying, “Listen to the crickets, Felix, what a noise they make.” The grandchildren no longer attempted to correct her when she confused them with their parents. Mama Chona’s face took on a diabolical sheen in those moments and JoEl, the initial shock of his own confrontation with time worn off, learned to ignore her. He looked out the window. The land and the sky were the same texture and the day was soundless.

  The family talk was now filled with stories about her strange behavior and conversation, and until the bath incident everyone regarded them with tolerance and amusement. Mema reported that Mama Chona now woke up in the middle of the night and wandered through the apartment searching for something.

  “Mamá, what are you looking for?”

  Mama Chona spoke only to herself, even as her daughter held her to keep her from falling in the darkness. She did reply once to Mema’s question, “I am looking for my children.” More often, she would mumble unintelligibly, as if she were saying the rosary or reciting a school lesson learned by rote for the nuns.

  In the daytime, usually before the late afternoon meal, she would ask, “Where is your father?” The first time she asked, Mema, surprised, told her straight-forwardly that he was dead. Without blinking, Chona retorted, “Yes, but why doesn’t he come to see me? Where is he?”

  Another day, sitting in the parlor waiting for a sandstorm to blow over, Mama Chona said very seriously to Mema, “I saw your father today. He was with that woman Josefina. They came to see me together, can you imagine? I knew he was seeing a great deal of her, but it was shameless of him to bring her here when there are children in the house. I will not forgive him for that.” It was the first any of them had heard of Josefina—Mama Chona had always told them what a respectable and upright man their father Jesus was—and Mema wanted to find out more but dared not ask.

  Gradually it became more and more dangerous to let Mama Chona out of their sight, even for a few moments. One day when Mema had let down her guard, her mother wandered out of the house and Mema and Miguel Grande spent hours looking for her. They found her standing on the corner of one of the busiest intersections in the downtown shopping district, facing toward Mexico and waving cars to the curb in order to ask the startled passengers if they knew where her husband was. After that she was watched constantly by her children or grandchildren, and, on holidays, by the Mexican women they hired from across the border.

  Miguel Grande and Mema often joked with each other in their mother’s presence as a way of coping with her disintegration. After one of Miguel Grande’s visits, Mama Chona asked, “Who was that chap? I like him very much.” When Mema reported that to him, they laughed with delight. Jesus Maria, however, was appalled by her mother’s fading memory and refused to be taken in by the others’ gross and flippant views of such a tragedy. She no longer dealt with her mother directly, preferring the distance of a phone call. Out of perversity, Mema would always ask Mama Chona if she wished to speak to Jesus Maria before she hung up.

  “I don’t know any Jesus Maria,” Mama Chona said. “Who are you talking about? One of your friends from Juarez? Leave me alone, malcriada.”

  Mema repeated the answer to her sister. They both understood that when Mama Chona referred to Mema’s “friends” from across the river, she meant prostitutes, and the inference caused Jesus Maria to rage for the rest of the day. Even in her witlessness, she said to her children and nephews, their grandmother found ways to taunt her and make life more miserable than it already was for all of them. Nonetheless, she was quick to add, they must respect Mama Chona and continue to pray for her health. She herself must learn to bear her cross with joy. Bearing crosses, the children knew, was her favorite pastime.

  Five years later, Encarnacion Olmeca viuda de Angel looked for the last time at all her children and their children. She asked that she be raised up so that she might see their faces, and Miguel Grande and Mema propped pillows behind her while Ricardo, now in his twenties, held her hands tenderly. It was strange to her that he, the scandal of the family, was the one who comforted her most in her long and painless act of dying. There was no doubt in her soul that at last she was to leave the desert of thorns and ashes in which she had lived most of her life.

  Miguel Grande, who in the last few years had scolded her a great deal for growing old, broke down as he held her. Mama Chona was as weightless as a lizard dried hollow by the sun.

  —Crybaby, Miguel, you were always the most sentimental in this family. You never fooled me.

  If she had not felt them touching her, Mama Chona would have floated straight to heaven where she was certain of admission. How could the heavenly hosts turn her away? It was the moment she had been waiting for all her life, a life of loss and sacrifice. Her husband and five of her children had been taken from her and she had suffered enough from the conduct of the survivors to be canonized. If there was justice in heaven, as she knew there was not on earth, the angels were preparing to welcome her with songs and jewels in their hands as offerings for the scars on her soul. Music and beautiful things had been her secret passions.

  She had not believed them when they told her that Felix was dead also, killed in an accident at the factory. He was only being his silly, irresponsible self, visiting Cuca instead of her because his aunt was more entertaining and had lighter skin. Malcriado! She knew him. He was nothing but a gadabout and as worthless as the rest of her children. Who would worry over their souls after she was gone?

  Eduviges had betrayed her in the last month by making her take a bath. Mama Chona had known for some time what her children were up to in their lifelong plan to torment her. First they wished to shame her and then to poison her with the bath water. She had not left the apartment or bathed for weeks, from the moment she had noticed something unnatural coming out of her womb. “Another worthless creature,” she said to her husband Jesus who had taken to visiting her, “you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” By not allowing herself to be naked, she had successfully denied the existence of the monster. She lost her temper the day Eduviges made preparations to get her into the tub.

  “Mamá, I’m going to bathe you,” she said.

  “No. I don’t want a bath. Leave me alone, please.”

  “But, Mamá, you haven’t had a bath in a long time. What’s the matter? Are you afraid?”

  “I’m not afraid. I know what you and Mema are doing. You want to pois
on me. You’ve never had any respect for me, malcriadas, and now you want to kill me. Well, I’m still the head of this family and I won’t let you.”

  This was too much for Eduviges, who prided herself on being Mama Chona’s most obedient, least bothersome child. To be accused of wanting to murder her own mother was the final insult. But Mema had warned her, and now she had to clutch Mama Chona by the arm and lead her forcibly—they were the same size—into the bathroom. The water was drawn and steaming, and the clean, perfumed towels lay waiting in neat piles. Eduviges had worked very hard to make the ordeal appealing.

  “Take off your clothes,” she ordered with as much menace as she could find in her heart for the old lady. Mama Chona grabbed the towels and threw them into the water with unexpected quickness, screamed that her daughter was poisoning her, struggled wildly, and scratched Eduviges’ cheek. She slapped Mama Chona and sat her down on the toilet seat. “If you don’t stay right here until I come back, Mamá, I will kill you,” she said. She ran down the hall to phone Miguel, the only member of the family who could make their mother obey. It was just after six in the morning.

  Miguel Grande, awakened by her call, could not make out what his sister was shouting about. Hysterical women made him more impatient than anything else in the world.

  “What the hell is going on? It’s six o’clock and Sunday morning.”

  “I know what time it is,” she screamed.

  “Calm down and tell me what’s going on.”

  After he understood, he told Juanita to get up and the two of them drove across town to his sister’s house. Sancho was away on a hunting trip, not wanting to be involved in the plot to bathe his mother-in-law.

  When Miguel and Juanita walked into the bathroom, Eduviges and Mema were holding Mama Chona and Miguel Grande was amused by his mother’s fighting spirit. He had no idea the old woman had that much strength left in her.

  “Mamá!” he shouted. “Be still!”

  He yelled ferociously at her, knowing from their experiences with her in the last two years that this made her calm and submissive. The first time he had used this tone with her, Juanita had wept at the disrespect and violence he was showing his mother. She had not cared much for Mama Chona, but she did not like to see anyone treated like a criminal.

  Encarnacion quieted down and stared at her husband, her eyes wide and shining with a scorpion’s fury. Her breath came in short, wheezing noises, and she was fighting to force her soul out of her body. In a harsh, loud, and steady voice, her husband was telling her that as soon as he left the bathroom, the women were going to undress her and give her a bath. That if she refused to let them do so, he would do it himself. That he was ashamed of a woman who allowed herself to become so unclean that her odor was unpleasant to the people who loved and respected her. That she was being foolish and behaving like a child, and that if she continued to misbehave, he would commit her to a hospital and order the doctors and nurses there to clean her up.

  “Si, Jesus,” she said, assenting like the child her husband always made her feel she was.

  In a chair outside the bathroom door, sipping the instant coffee he had made for himself and reading the newspaper, Miguel Grande heard soft splashing sounds and a quiet conversation between his sisters and his wife that he did not heed. He grinned to himself, the image of his mother about to take a swing at his sister Eduviges still before him. “What a woman,” he said affectionately into his coffee cup, wondering why his mother had begun calling him by their father’s name. Juanita came out first, her clothes drenched and her face sweaty from the steam. She was as pale as if she were going to be sick. “What’s wrong?” he asked her. “What’s the matter now?”

  “Miguel, call Dr. Ahrens right away. Your mother is very ill. Her uterus is falling out and she’s bleeding a lot.”

  The monster between her legs was almost out and Mama Chona was glad that it showed no signs of life. All the better for it. It had not bothered her and she did not understand why everyone else was making such a fuss over it. One should ignore those parts of the body anyway. Filthy children, all they ever thought about was the body.

  Propped up in a strange bed in an unfamiliar and sterile room, Mama Chona saw her children around her, weeping quietly. Even their husbands and wives were with them. They were inundating her with their grief, which she considered false and silly. She wanted them to go away and let her die in peace and she pretended to sleep, hoping they would leave.

  Ricardo was holding her hands still and she did not have the strength to push him away. He spoke softly to her in Spanish, telling her who was in the room in a voice that was pleasing to her.

  —Ricardo, you are a good boy. But how can I leave the family to you, the bastard son?

  “Mamá,” he said to her, his head almost next to hers on the pillow. “We are all here. Your sons and daughters, your grandsons and granddaughters, all the family. You gave us life and we will make you proud of us after you have gone to heaven. We respect and love you very much. You need not be afraid.”

  —Afraid? Afraid of what? She had known death all her life. Her existence had been a long dying fall. She welcomed death. Even in her imperfection, she knew that Jesus and His Mother would take her to them and comfort her for all eternity. He, at least, was a good son, though sometimes she had had her doubts when she thought about the suffering He had caused His Mother. Mary, children aren’t worth the trouble. Sweet and loving as babies, they turn into monsters who cast you aside and compete with one another to see which of them can cause you the most pain. Your Son alone was worth the trouble, but He made you suffer a great deal. Still, He made you queen of heaven. But my children, mother of God, have not been worth the trouble.

  “What did you say, Mamá?” Jesus Maria asked. They had all taken turns saying a few words to her at the bedside. She was the last. “Mamá, it’s Jesus Maria. Can you hear me?”

  —Jesus Maria! the child she had named for her beloved Jesus and Mary.

  “Mamá, forgive me.” Jesus Maria, allowing herself to weep in front of her mother for the last time, choked out her apologies and sang the litany of the disobedient child. Even Miguel Grande, usually contemptuous of his sister’s hypocrisy, felt moved and looked with some pity at her humiliation before the family. Jesus Maria, carried away with her performance, took advantage of the allotted time and chided herself publicly for having been a trial to the poor mother now lying defenselessly before their eyes.

  Mama Chona opened her eyes and looked at her daughter with full recognition. “It’s about time,” she said for all to hear and closed her eyes once more. Jesus Maria stopped crying instantly and retreated to her husband’s side.

  Days passed during which Mama Chona heard and smelled rainstorms passing over the desert. She longed to see the yucca and ocotillo in bloom, to breathe in their fragrance and praise them for their thorniness and endurance. If only human beings could be like plants. In one of her daydreams, she saw the desert sand filled with verbenas and blooming dandelions, and with the first Miguel by her side, she discovered wild roses. The mourning doves accompanying them were the color of twilight. “Look,” she said to her son, “look!” She opened her eyes and saw that she was still in that strange room with all the family waiting for her to die.

  —Why do they weep? Why don’t they go away? I’ll speak to them.

  “Children,” she said, after Mema helped her take a few sips of water, “children, don’t weep. I am happy to leave this valley of tears because I know the life awaiting me will be much, much better. Please don’t cry any more. Leave me in peace with Jesus and His Holy Mother.”

  Slowly, the weeping noises subsided and the room became completely silent. After a few moments, Mama Chona opened her eyes abruptly. Mema later swore she heard them click. The old woman looked at them for the last time.

  Even Felix had finally come to visit her. He was standing between Miguel Chico and JoEl. She reached out to them but was unable to lift her arms.

 
Miguel Chico felt the Rain God come into the room.

  —Let go of my hand, Mama Chona. I don’t want to die.

  “La familia,” she said.

  Felix walked toward her out of the shadows. “Mamá,” he called in a child’s voice that startled her.

  “All right,” she said to the living in the room, “if you want to, you can cry a little bit.”

  To Felix, she said, “Where have you been, malcriado?” He took her in his arms. He smelled like the desert after a rainstorm.

  About the Author

  The late ARTURO ISLAS was our most acclaimed and accomplished literary explorer of Mexican-American culture. The publication of his first novel, The Rain God, marked the arrival of a new and unique voice that could speak to both traditions.

  Born in 1938 in El Paso, Texas, Islas grew up in the same desert country along the Mexican-American border that is the home of the Angel family in his novels. He earned his undergraduate, graduate and doctoral degrees from Stanford University, where he continued as a professor of English. He was a member of Phi Beta Kappa, a Woodrow Wilson Fellow and a University Fellow, as well as a recipient of the Lloyd W. Dinkelspeil Award for outstanding service to undergraduate education at Stanford. One of Islas’ most popular courses was a limited enrollment seminar, called “American Lives,” that mixed readings in literary autobiography with students’ own attempts to chronicle important aspects of their lives.

  He wrote Migrant Souls, the companion novel to The Rain God, a year before he died at home in Stanford in early 1991. He was at work on a third novel.

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  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.