Caminos

by Scott Walker

  “I’m such a stupid cow.” Julia was disgusted with herself and with him. She climbed abruptly from the bed and began to dress.

  “What are you doing?” Gilles asked, truly mystified. She had seemed such a free spirit when he talked to her in the park and over the weeks since. “Come back into the bed.”

  “Why?” Julia said sharply. “So I can be your whore for another night? No, Gilles, I’m going.”

  He looked deeply offended. “Why … why do you say such a hurtful thing, Julia? I have not treated you like a prostitute.”

  Julia pulled on the cheap dress she had brought with her from Anmoore. She stuffed the remainder of her belongings into the second-hand leather duffle she had purchased that spring, after a year of saving a few cents from each paycheck at the laundry. She carefully draped the three Parisian dresses from Gilles over the back of an armchair across from the bed.

  “I’m sorry, Gilles,” she said. “You’re right. We’ve had a lovely month, and you’ve been very kind to me. Thank you.” The duffle thrown over her shoulder, Julia returned to the side of the bed. She leaned over, kissed him on the cheek and patted his bare chest three times. “Thank you, Gilles. But I have to go. I want a man who loves me and wants to marry me.”

  He grabbed her hand. “Why must you be so old-fashioned, Julia? There is so much more to life than working class conventionalism.”

  She pulled away from his grasp. “Not for me, Gilles,” she said. “You take care of yourself.” She turned to leave.

  “Julia, Julia, wait,” he said. He started to get out of the bed. “Where will you go? It is nearly midnight.”

  “Don’t get up, Gilles,” she told him, motioning him back with her hand. “I’ll let myself out. And don’t worry, I’ll manage on my own. I always do.”

  She descended the winding staircase of the Beaux Arts building and breathed in the crisp air of the Montreal autumn night. She loved that fall scent of dried leaves and wood smoke. Julia was disappointed, but not quite heartbroken. Guadalajara had been much worse. She had grown to expect little from men, and she felt foolish for having allowed herself to be so drawn into Gilles and this strange, wonderful, foreign world. But she also was thankful for it. Julia set off for the train station, suddenly eager to return to the familiar, comfortable confines of Anmoore.

  A month after she returned from Canada, Julia miscarried Gilles’ baby. She was glad.

  Chapter 16

  Anmoore

  25 December 1939

  My dear brother and sister-in-law,

  I hope all of you there are well and that you have had a happy Christmas. Ours has been the nicest in years. With Luis working at the carbon plant, Antonio at the state roads department, and Julia still part-time at the laundry, we are not struggling to survive any more. The whole atmosphere of the town seems to be almost normal, for the first time since the smelter closed back in 1927. It has been a long, hard road.

  We had a house full of friends and neighbors last night for Christmas dinner. Two of the men showed up with bagpipes and two others with barrels of cider. Everybody was chattering away in Spanish, and it reminded me so much of Christmas at Las Cepas. Twenty-five I have spent here now. It does not seem possible. I miss you and home even more than usual at this time of the year.

  What a relief that the civil war there is finally over, though at such a cost. Pepe and Avelino both killed along with so many others. Thank God the war did not take any more of your sons. Every Spanish family in Anmoore lost family there. The Reds here, of course, think the new government is a catastrophe, but I hope it will bring peace and stability and let people get back to their lives.

  At least it seems Franco will keep Spain out of this new European mess. All this killing. It never ends. I pray every night that Roosevelt keeps his promise the Americans will stay out of it too. I could not bear my boys going off to war.

  But enough of that. I am glad to hear that Manuel is doing so well already at the new smelter in San Juan. I cannot believe he is eighteen already. Tell him his Aunt Mercedes loves him, even if we never have had the chance to see each other face to face. Maybe someday, after our children all are settled with families of their own, I can convince Antonio to go back so we can die at home.

  Take care of yourselves. Kisses and hugs from all of us here to all of you there.

  Mercedes González Conde

  * * *

  Anmoore, West Virginia

  June 1941

  “Oh, Luis, why have you done this?” Mercedes asked, whitehaired and wrinkled like a prune at the age of fifty-six.

  “The war’s been going on in Europe for more than two years now,” Luis said. “We can’t stay out of it much longer. And when we get in, I want to be there.” He had gone to Clarksburg that morning and enlisted in the navy.

  “But what about your job at the carbon plant?” Mercedes said. “It’s such good work to walk away from, and as much as I hate so say it, we’ll have a hard time getting by without that income.”

  “I’ve already taken care of it, mama,” Luis said. He draped a long arm over her bony shoulders. He got the job the week after he finished high school, seven years before, and Luis had a religious fervor for helping his parents and siblings. Their well-being, he believed, was his paramount responsibility. “You know I wouldn’t just abandon you,” he told Mercedes. “I talked to the shop foreman yesterday, and they’ll hire Manuel in my place. You’ll actually come out ahead, without me here to feed anymore.”

  “I’d rather keep feeding you,” his mother said ruefully. She looked across the kitchen to Antonio. “Will you please talk some sense into your son?”

  However, her husband sided with their oldest boy. “He’s right,” Antonio said, sitting at the table with a café con leche and cigarette. “We’ll get into this thing soon, too. He might as well be ready.”

  “We.” She nearly spat the word. “I don’t see what ‘we’ have to do with it. My brother lost a son and a daughter in that stupid civil war in Spain. Now you’re ready to sacrifice Luis for the Americans?”

  “I’m American, mama,” Luis said. That he was. All their children, and the children of the other immigrants in the town, had embraced the country in which they were born. Thoroughly. They spoke Spanish with their parents, but they preferred the English they spoke with their friends. Most felt no emotional connection at all to Spain. They had never been there, and no more than a handful ever would go in their lifetimes.

  The new war in Europe and Asia only heightened their patriotism for the United States. “And I don’t plan on sacrificing myself,” Luis added. “That’s why I’m enlisting now. When we get in, they’ll draft everybody. I don’t want to be hauled in as cannon fodder. The recruiter told me they might even make me a non-commissioned officer before too long if I enlist now.”

  “I don’t even know what a non-commissioned officer is,” Mercedes said. “But I presume it doesn’t make you magically bulletproof.”

  Luis chuckled and hugged her. “You worry too much, mama. I’ll be fine.”

  Julia came bounding into the kitchen. She had a tall, lanky man in tow. “Mama, papa, Luis, I want you to meet someone!”

  Mercedes grimaced. Antonio slurped the last of his coffee. Luis stuck out his hand to the man.

  “This is Art. Art Kelley,” Julia announced, as if they should recognize the name.

  “Pleased to meet you, Art,” Luis said. He shook the man’s hand.

  “That’s my brother, Luis,” Julia said, “and this is my mother, Mercedes, but you can call her Martha. Everybody who speaks English does.” Mercedes flinched at the hated name and nodded, her arms crossed across her chest. “And this is my papa, Antonio.” Her father shook Art’s hand without getting up from his chair. “Art and I met last week,” Julia said. She was nearly vibrating with delight. “I’m just crazy about him, and I couldn’t wait for you to meet him.”

  “Where did you meet?” Mercedes asked.

  “Oh, that’s not import
ant,” Julia said, batting a hand dismissively and smiling wildly at Art.

  “So, at the roadhouse, then,” Mercedes growled. Julia had been spending most of her evenings for several months in the dark little bar at the edge of Anmoore on the road to Clarksburg.

  “Why do you always have to be such a killjoy?” Julia shouted. Her mood required little stimulus to whip from one extreme to the other. “You criticize every single thing I do!”

  Mercedes did not respond.

  “Your brother has a bit of news himself,” Antonio said in Spanish.

  “Yes, um,” Luis said, in English, “I enlisted in the navy this morning.” He looked at Mercedes, and then back to Julia and Art, and added in Spanish: “I’ll leave in a week for training.”

  “In a week!” Mercedes exclaimed. It had not occurred to her that he would depart so soon.

  “The navy!” Julia cried gleefully. “You’ll look like a movie star in that white uniform!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Mercedes said. She did not understand her daughter’s comment, but her joyful tone was enough. She left the kitchen without an additional word to anyone.

  “Well, Art and I are going to Florida tomorrow!” Julia announced. “He has a car and some friends who live near Miami, and we’re going to the beach for a month!”

  Luis and Antonio knew how this story would end. “Ah, nice, Julia,” Luis said unenthusiastically. “That’ll be quite a trip. Good to meet you, Art,” he added, shaking the man’s hand again. “I have some things to do, if you’ll excuse me.” Luis left the kitchen. Antonio stood, nodded at Art, and followed Luis out of the house.

  “That’s my family,” Julia said to Art Kelley. “Part of it anyway. I have two other brothers and a little sister.”

  “I look forward to meeting them. I think,” Art said. He had expected a warmer welcome.

  “They’ll loosen up,” Julia assured him. “Now, speaking of loosening up” she said, “I could use a drink. How about you?”

  Julia and Art drove to the roadhouse and began another beery afternoon which would stretch late into the night.

  * * *

  January 1942

  Julia, Pilar and Mercedes were five years older, but otherwise the scene was the same. Julia was in labor on her parents’ bed. Pilar held her hand. Mercedes angrily assisted the birth.

  “It’s a girl,” Mercedes said flatly. “I’m not raising this one for you.”

  “I’d already decided, when Art left, that I’m giving it up for adoption,” Julia snapped.

  It had been Julia’s longest relationship, even if it was often a blur of beer and whisky shots. Art always was non-committal about marriage, but he never ruled it out entirely. He occasionally said he loved her, unprompted. For Julia, that almost was as good as a proposal.

  Then Pearl Harbor came. Art and nearly every other man under thirty in the town immediately volunteered for the fight. Julia’s brothers Manuel and Antonio followed Luis into the navy. Art chose the army instead.

  He would not marry Julia before he left for basic training, as she hoped and pleaded, but Art was infuriated by her decision not to keep the baby. She had told him, at the roadhouse, at the end of his threeday leave before shipping out to England.

  “But it’s my baby, too,” he shouted as they stood at the crowded bar in the roadhouse. “You can’t just give it away without my permission.”

  “If you won’t marry me, I can do whatever I want with it,” Julia shouted back.

  “Hey, you two,” the bartender yelled from the other end of the bar. “Pipe down or take it outside. Nobody wants to listen to your shit.”

  “Sorry, Bill,” Art said to the bartender. He turned back to Julia. “If you do this,” he said, “we’re finished. I mean it, Julia.”

  “That’s your choice, not mine,” she said, her voice full of spite. “You’re not leaving me a choice,” he said through clenched teeth. “What can I do?” Julia asked. She drained off the last of her beer.

  “You won’t marry me. You’re running off to the war with the rest of the stupid men. I’m supposed to raise this kid on my own?”

  “There will be lots of women on their own with their kids,” Art said. “For Christ’s sake, Julia, it’s a world war. Why don’t you try not to be so self-centered for once.”

  “Why don’t you go fuck yourself,” Julia shouted. “Don’t worry, Bill,” she added quickly to the bartender, who was glaring again in their direction. “I’m leaving.” She took some coins from her purse and slammed them on the bar. “And give the soldier here a beer and a bump on me.”

  Halfway home, Julia sat down on the curb and bawled. It was so unfair. She wanted so little, just a man to love her and to want a home and family with her. She did not even care if they had a house; a little apartment in Clarksburg would suffice. He simply needed to care about her. Was that so much to ask? Was she so unlovable and difficult that no man could give her such a basic, normal thing?

  After she cried out the pain to a tolerable level, Julia stood up from the curb. She wiped her face dry with her sleeve and straightened her skirt. “Well, fuck him, then,” she said into the night. “Fuck them all.” She fumbled around in her handbag for her pack of Camels, lit one, and marched off up the street toward her parents’ house. If no man would give her what she so desired, she decided, she would just take what they were willing to give, enjoy herself as much as possible, and keep her heart to herself. Nobody wanted it anyway, it seemed.

  Chapter 17

  Anmoore

  5 March 1943

  My dear brother and sister-in-law,

  I hope you are getting by, and I am sure you are ready for spring to arrive. This was always my least favourite time of the year in Asturias, when the rain and cold seemed like they would never go away. I am saddened to hear from you that so many there are nearly starving because of the blockade. Thank God you have the farm and the bounty of the sea at hand.

  The boys write what they can, when they can. The navy censors all their letters, but the boys are crafty and always find ways to hint at where they are. I am sorry to say Luis appears to be helping inflict the current suffering on Spain. Last we heard, his ship is part of the force patrolling off Galicia and Asturias to enforce the blockade. It is a horrible irony for me, and his recent letters only make that feeling worse. He spends half of them ranting about “that fascist Franco” and saying the Americans should just invade and overthrow him. Of course, the censors are happy to let that get through.

  Manuel and Antonio Jr. are both in the Pacific, which terrifies me. One of my friends lost her only son at Guadalcanal last month, and she is, of course, inconsolable. And it is clear that this will be a long war. All I can do is pray. I go to the mass every day, and a group of us mothers pray the rosary together on Friday and Sunday evenings. Still, I am sick from worry all the time. I know it weighs heavily on Antonio, too, though he never shows it. He fancies himself Americanized, but he is still just a tight-lipped old Gallego.

  As for the girls, Pilar is excited about finishing high school in May. She already has her black robe and that strange, board-topped hat they wear for the graduation ceremony, and I see her trying it on in front of the mirror at least twice a week. I am so proud of her. My girl, a highschool graduate. The boys, of course, also went all the way through, but it makes me particularly happy that Pilar has. Julia is Julia. The least said about that the better.

  Do you see anything of Ramón’s daughter, Sagrario? I still cannot believe she and her husband and children got stranded there when the war broke out. Ramón says that the last he heard from her, they seem to be doing well and have opened a café in Avilés. Ramón hates Franco as much as Luis does, so he is glad they are surviving but not happy that Sagrario appears to enjoy living there. He fears she will not return, even when the war ends. I must say, though, that I envy her.

  Take care.

  Mercedes González Conde

  * * *

  Anmoore, West Virginia
<
br />   April 1943

  “Thank you for making time to come, Miss Ribas,” the principal said. He sat across the desk from Julia in his office at the elementary school. “As I said in my note, we must address this

  situation with Richard.”

  “I don’t know what you’re calling a ‘situation’,” Julia said testily. “Boys fight on the playground. What’s the big controversy?”

  “Ms. Ribas, please,” the principal said. “There is no reason to be defensive. Yes, there have been fights on the playground for as long as there have been playgrounds and boys. But Richard’s behavior has gone beyond that.” He looked down the page in a ledger opened before him on the desk. “Your son has been involved in sixteen … no, eighteen fights so far this school year, and three of them have been bad enough that we suspended him.”

  “What’s he supposed to do,” Julia asked, “when the boys call him a bastard and say his mother’s a whore? Why don’t you do something about that?”

  “I know, Miss Ribas, there always are two parties in a fight.” The principal’s tone was even and sympathetic. “But I assure you, I have been the principal of this school for nine years, and was a teacher here for eleven before that, and I have not ever seen a boy as aggressive and spoiling for a fight as Richard.”

  “But—” Julia began.

  The principal held up his hand and cut her off. “Please, please, hear me out. We only want what is best for Richard.”

  Julia crossed her arms and rolled her eyes.

  “You may not accept that,” the principal said, “but it is the truth. His teacher and I only want what is best for him, and, of course, for the other students. We simply cannot endure this behavior any longer.”

  “So, what?” Julia barked. “You’re expelling him?”

  “We do not want to do that, Miss Ribas. I am proposing that, with your agreement and assistance, we transfer him to the West Virginia Reform School at Pruntytown—”