The Children of Sanchez

by Oscar Lewis

I was just sixteen when I went to their house for the first time. It made a deep impression upon me, especially the parlor, for without ever having been in such a nice one before, it was exactly the kind I had so often dreamed of. It made me feel important to be there, and at the same time, ill at ease. Somehow, I felt my father’s eyes upon me and could hear him saying, “Fool! Why do you go pushing yourself where you don’t belong!” I stood there, squeezing my folder and my purse in my sweaty hands, until Juana made me sit down.

  Seeing me so disturbed, Señor Parra said, “Would you like a drink?”

  “Caramba!” I thought. “Are they going to drink? What will they say at home if I come back drunk?” I must confess that I didn’t know it was the custom among the middle class to drink aperitifs before dinner. In the vecindad, to drink meant to get drunk. I was frightened but I took the vermouth they offered. It was the first time in my life I had tasted it, and as I lifted the glass with my new friends, in a house far better than mine, I felt very pleased and flattered.

  When dinner was ready, we went to the dining room. The table was set very nicely, with a cloth and knives and forks. I was still carrying my folder and purse (I was afraid to set it down in the wrong place) when I sat at my place, worrying about how I would eat with a fork. At home, we ate with a spoon or with a tortilla, but here was Señor Parra using a fork. Somehow I managed to eat the rice and fish, although they both kept falling off the fork. But the salad! That was more of a torment! Never did a meal taste more bitter to me. When it was over, I was red and sweaty. To make matters worse, Juana and her husband did not take their eyes off me, as though they wanted to see my embarrassment. To show his sympathy, Señor Santiago patted my head, but that upset me even more. I had the idea that only animals were caressed that way. So I jerked away my head, thinking to myself, “Does he think I am a cat?” It was a relief to get back to the office.

  At first, Señor Santiago was polite and respectful, but after a while, he tried to make love to me. He openly proposed, saying he was ready to leave Juana and marry me. Of course, I did not accept. I made him understand I wasn’t just a cheap girl.

  Unfortunately, at this time my brother Roberto was put in jail. The next day, I went to work early and locked myself in the office to cry. How to help him? I didn’t even know what to do for him. Besides, a lot of money would be needed. “Oh, Lord, help me!”

  I opened the door and saw Licenciado Hernández, the lawyer who had his office across the hall. He asked what was wrong. At that moment embarrassment didn’t matter and, after all, I planned to pay him back, so I asked him for help. When Licenciado Hernández said, “Come, come, don’t worry. Let’s see what we can do.” I felt my feet touching earth again.

  I asked Señor Santiago for the day off and went with the licenciado to the Pentientiary, feeling like a little girl following someone who gives out candy. It was too late for visitors, but I went back later alone and saw Roberto and his friend Hermilio. They were without shoes and all ragged. I got scared; I was used to seeing my brother in bad shape, but not like that. The other prisoners had beaten them up and had taken their things. I wanted to cry but I thought, “If I cry, he’ll cry too.”

  Roberto said, “Look, sister. Get me out of here. I swear I’ll behave from now on.” Roberto signed the papers I had brought, and I left. He was calmer, but I felt as if my heart would break to see him there among so many dirty, tough-looking men.

  I went to the courts for his record and the licenciado arranged the paper for bail that same day. Later, at home, I told my father how much money was needed to get Roberto out, and his answer was, “I won’t give one single centavo for that rat. He was just looking for trouble. Let him rot in jail. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

  I spent the whole night in a sea of confusion and tears, wondering how to get the money. I would sell or pawn my clothes, or borrow from a loan shark, no matter how high the interest was. I didn’t want to have to ask my boss for a loan, since he was trying to get hold of me. When the time limit on the bail was almost up and I still didn’t have the money, I cried very much.

  Señor Santiago kept watching me and finally asked what the matter was. Crying, I told him, and he got mad at my papá. “What’s wrong with your father? He should be the one taking care of the matter. What business is it of yours to be going around among that gang of ruffians and criminals, up and down the stairs, exposing yourself to insults? I want to have a talk with your father.”

  “Don’t start in on my father, Señor Santiago. He knows what he is doing. After all, we are grown up now and there is no reason why we should bother him.” Señor Santiago smiled and held out two hundred pesos to me. It would be deducted from my pay, but even then I hesitated. Thinking of Roberto, I had no choice but to lower my head and take it.

  After putting up the bail, Roberto was free. But what all this cost me! My face burned with shame on leaving the Penitentiary. When anyone from the vecindad turned around to look at me, I had to lower my eyes. Everybody knew about it and I avoided people. I thought Roberto really would behave himself after that, but I was mistaken. He was supposed to go to the Penitentiary each week to sign in, but after the first few times he stopped. If I urged him to go, I would get slapped in the face.

  My brother was locked up again a year later for not complying with the parole rules and once more I was the one who had to get him out. This time a girl at the office introduced me to Licenciado Marroquín and he helped me. Roberto was in the Penitentiary about eight months, during which time my father didn’t want to know anything about him, not even hear his name, and did not go to see him. Roberto always asked for my father and would hang his head and say, “It is good that he doesn’t come to a place like this. It would soil him.”

  Manuel visited Roberto only once, but Marta, my aunt and I went every week, bringing what we could. I went to church almost every day to pray for him and to light candles.

  When my brother was released, the licenciado wouldn’t accept payment, not even the present I wanted to give him, nor had he ever hinted at anything improper. He always behaved correctly with me, for which I am infinitely grateful. Roberto continued to be nasty to me. But now, when he wanted to hit me, I would threaten to have him locked up again and that stopped him.

  Señor Santiago began to arrive at the office in bad humor, threw papers at me and if I made a mistake reprimanded me harshly. One time, to my shame he said, “I am going to wait for you to get married. Then it will be easier for me to have you—to have your body, which is what I want.” When I went to their house for dinner, he would rub my foot or wait until his wife went into the kitchen to stroke my head and ask me for a kiss. I still owed the money for the bail, but later I quit working for him, without telling his wife anything. I remained friendly with her for many years and Señor Santiago kept waiting until he got tired.

  After that I went to work for Licenciado Hernández. It was then I discovered he had helped me because he liked me. One afternoon while he was dictating, he said, “Your mouth is like a plum, a juicy plum. Like a delicious fruit I feel like biting. And your slant eyes make me want to close them.” I remained silent. I felt flattered but on the other hand his words reminded me of my brothers who when I was little made me cry by calling me “tea flower,” “slant eyes,” “piggy-bank eyes,” “Chink eyes,” “crack eyes,” “Chinkie,” “cat eyes.” I didn’t like such nicknames because I had once seen a very thin, ugly Chinese, whose eyes were so narrow they were almost hidden. Besides, Irela and her cousin, who really had Chinese blood, got mad when they were called that. So it must be something bad, I thought. I left Licenciado Hernández after only two weeks because I got sick.

  When I began to work again it was for an accountant, Señor García. His office was in a tall building, the first elevator building I had ever been in. My only co-worker was Jaime Castro, a short young man, who hardly came up to my ear. He had very thick eyebrows, prominent eyes, small mouth with straight lips and a very sharp
nose. His hair was black and shiny with brilliantine, his fingers were thick and stubby. In his tight-fitting jacket, he looked like one of those little dwarfed figures they put on cakes. But what a good friend he was at work!

  Jaime was the assistant accountant and I just a secretary and he would get me out of any kind of jam. When I didn’t know how to do the work and made mistakes, my excuse was, “I don’t know, Señor García. Jaime told me to do it that way.” Jaime would just turn around to me and smile, and for the moment, I was saved.

  He invited me to the movies, to have coffee, to see American football, to Chapultepec Park, to the Sixteenth of September parade. He made a regular thing of taking me to a different place every week. It was through him that I got to know the city’s parks, the swimming pools and bullfights. He brought me candy, flowers and little presents of no consequence, except that they made me realize he was thinking of me.

  In short, he won me over and I began to feel a friendly affection toward him. He would tell me his love problems and I told him mine. When he invited me to the movies, I expected him to make love to me, but he didn’t do anything and I came to believe he was different from the others. I was delighted because I could go out whenever I wanted to without being afraid of getting involved with him. I felt sympathy for him and nothing more.

  I knew Jaime drank because of an unhappy love affair. His drinking was the only bad thing about him but that didn’t matter to me then. I tried to give him advice about it. I didn’t get to love him until later. He taught me the real meaning of the word.

  We were very good friends but he never invited me to dance, which was still my greatest pleasure. When I danced it was as if I took flight. I felt as though I had no feet and my tiredness melted away. The music was irresistible. The notes of the danzón penetrated my soul. Note by note it would begin to work its way inside me until without realizing it, I would find myself dancing, flying, almost. The music entered me sweet as the perfumed water one bathes in. The señoras would stand around watching, condemning the style of dancing. “Qué! They have no shame any more. Imagine if I did things like that in my time!” But none of this mattered to me. This was how I escaped from the happenings of the day.

  When Jaime and I came to love each other he forbade me to dance. I wouldn’t go out to dance when he came to call on me, until after he had left. In spite of my dancing and my family troubles, Jaime was nice to me and to everyone in my family. A day didn’t pass but that he brought toys, cakes, or dolls to my nieces and nephews. He never failed to give my sister-in-law Paula money on Sunday so that he could eat at my house. On Paula’s Saint’s Day he brought her a bouquet of flowers and presents for all of us.

  He won over my family, except my father, who didn’t like him because he drank. He had said to Jaime, “I will never give my consent to your marriage and will fight to the end to separate you.” Whenever Jaime tried to chat with him or give him a present, my father would answer only yes or no and never accepted the gift. Jaime tried to win his affection but did not succeed.

  On my father’s Saint’s Day, Jaime bought him a cake and gave my sister-in-law money to make chocolate. But instead of being pleased, my father pushed the cake aside and refused to have supper. I was embarrassed because I was always treated very well when I went to Jaime’s house. His mamá seated me at the head of the table and served me before anyone else. My papacito would insult Jaime in every way he knew how until I was afraid Jaime would no longer love me. But he always accepted my excuses and, kissing me on the forehead, would say, “Yes, mi vida, I understand.”

  One Christmas, my father put me through the worst shame of all. Jaime and I had given Paula money to make the traditional supper, a salad and two other dishes. Jaime had brought the bottles of soda and the poinsetta flowers, and Paula had arranged the table and the room very nicely. But the same thing happened. My father arrived at about ten o’clock and didn’t even say hello as he came in. I greeted him with a smile, full of fear. “Papacito, we’ve been waiting for you to have supper.”

  “I don’t want anything. Get to bed! Come on, get all this stuff away from here.” He immediately shut the doors of the room. He threw the tablecloth on one of the beds and the flowers landed on one of the chairs.

  “At least let me take the table out into the kitchen to have supper.”

  “You’re taking nothing out of here. The table doesn’t leave this room. Everybody to bed. Turn that light out!” Paula went to bed with the children.

  I went out to the courtyard with Jaime. A dance was going on. I didn’t know what to say to him. He pulled out a cigarette and lighted it. “Don’t worry about it, Skinny. Maybe somebody made him mad and that’s why he is acting like this.”

  I said nothing. I leaned on his chest and began to cry. After staying with me half an hour, Jaime said good-bye. I let him go, feeling very sad. “He’s not going to love me any more. He’s going to change toward me,” I thought.

  I wasn’t wrong. He began to criticize my father and order me about. He wanted me to obey him instead of my papá and, of course, I wouldn’t. Jaime acted as though we were married and began to show his true colors. He drank more than before and would come to see me, completely drunk. Sometimes he would whistle for me at three or four o’clock in the morning and if I didn’t appear, he would bang on the door. I began to be annoyed with him and kept trying to make him stop drinking.

  Then, one day I realized I had been too innocent in going through with our engagement. A girl named Adelaida had come to work in our office long after I had. Everyone in the office knew that Jaime and I were going to be married, so I don’t believe this girl could not have known. One afternoon, I came back from lunch early and sat down in Señor Garcia’s armchair in his private office. I heard voices in the next office and looked through the little telephone window. There I saw Jaime kissing Adelaida and stroking her hair. He was about to say something when he saw me. He remained dumb.

  I stood there thinking, “Am I seeing right? Who knows if he knew her before me?” I felt bitter, defeated, and furious with myself for having believed in him. “Great idiot! But didn’t you see all the attention he pays her? Didn’t you see how she seeks him out for any little thing?” I was burning with jealousy and I felt an infinite hatred for him. He tried to explain but my heart was broken. I cried on the bus all the way home.

  When I arrived home, I wanted to burst into tears again, but a very dear little voice, dearer than Jaime’s, stopped me. Mariquita, my little niece, said to me, “Auntie, Auntie, take us to the merry-go-round. I have my five-centavo piece.” When I saw her, the bitterness dissolved into sweetness because of the great love I had for that child. “Yes, madre. Put your little sweater on and put on Alanes’ also.”

  Their pleasure completely washed away the deception that I had suffered that afternoon. Once we were at the poor little fair and I saw how happy my little niece and nephew were, I was happy too. The pleasant dizziness of the merry-go-round, the up and down motion of the horses and the children in my arms, made me laugh out loud. My little niece was my adoration. It was as if she were my own child—Jaime was even jealous when he saw how much we loved each other. He would ask me if I preferred my niece to him, and I always said yes, I preferred her.

  I didn’t want Jaime to come to my house any more, but he was jealous and distrustful and came around to see whether I was going with somebody else. Since I was still in love with him, I let him come. I really needed his moral support because my father was bothering me about my health.

  I had become terribly thin and had a cough. He had always worried about me becoming tubercular and took me to his friend, Dr. Santoyo, who wasn’t really a medical doctor but a curer of some sort. Dr. Santoyo agreed that I looked tubercular and prescribed two injections a day, one in the vein and one intramuscularly. Later, he added a third one, subcutaneously. He also gave me tonics, pills, transfusions and serums, I had a strong taste of iodine in my mouth and my body ached from so many punctures.


  Sometimes I didn’t go for my daily injections and my father would get angry, scolding me cruelly. He threatened to put me in the hospital where Elena had been, “I’ll put you there and then you’ll see. Imbecile! Like dumb animals that don’t understand! The only place you’ll go from there is to the cremation furnace.” Even in Jaime’s presence, my father, with his scornful look, would say, “With that tubercular dog cough you have, you’re going to end up in the morgue.” I listened to all this with my head bowed and didn’t dare talk back. How completely without compassion my father was! As for Dr. Santoyo, he had arranged for me to enter the hospital and told us that he had a bed ready. I cried desperately.

  Jaime’s mother heard about what was going on and took me to her doctor. He took an x-ray and said I didn’t have the slightest trace of being sick. My ex-employers, Juana and Señor Santiago, also took me to a specialist, who had me under observation all afternoon. My sputum, blood, pulse, lungs, everything, was examined. I had more proof to show that Dr. Santoyo was wrong. Screwing up my courage, I showed my father the doctors’ reports. Far from believing me, he and Dr. Santoyo were angry because I had gone to someone else. My “treatment” continued against my will.

  I didn’t understand my father. Things couldn’t continue that way. One afternoon, I went to visit Santitos and told her what he was doing to me. “Why, why, why? Why is my father like this?” I asked. She hunched her old shoulders and puffed on a cigarette and said, “Someone must be ‘working’ on him. I think someone is bewitching him.”

  “Ay, Santitos! Do you think so? If I only knew who it might be!”

  That was when I went to the telepathist with her. He told me my father was not bewitched, but that it was his nature to be like that, and I should not worry about him. He didn’t help me with my problem at all, but he saw something in the cards about myself that gave me a fright. He said I had a strong will and could become someone very important, or, if I was not careful, I could fall very low. He told me to come often for advice, for he could keep me from falling. I left him three pesos and went home with Santitos, feeling foolish. I didn’t believe he was a good diviner but nevertheless I remembered for years what he said about me.