that I’m not great at adding up numbers—which is fuckin’ okay
because I haven’t got a dollar in my worthless Mexican pockets.
Shit.”
“But don’t you have money now that you’re working?”
104 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e
“Sure. I’m a fucking millionaire.”
“You might be. Someday. It could happen.”
“Nope.”
“Sure it could.”
“Not to me, Charlie. Now, Xochil, she’s something. She’s re-
ally something. And she knows a few things. And she’s smart.
Einstein smart. And she’s got something inside of her that’s bluer than Dad’s Impala and bluer than any sky you’ll ever see if you live to be a hundred. Yeah, she’s something. Not me. Listen to me, Charlie, are you listening? Graduating from El Paso High wasn’t the most important fucking thing that happened in 1967.”
Charlie nodded. He was breaking the rules of the game. It
wasn’t supposed to get serious. Not ever. He thought a moment.
“Oh, I got it! I got it!”
“What?”
“Music, Gus!”
“Now, you’re talking. Now you’re fuckin’ talking. That’s the
most important thing.”
Charlie smiled. He was back on track. That’s the way the
game went—Gus was always in charge and he made up the rules
as he went along. The game depended on his mood. The game
depended on what was on his mind. All Charlie had to do was
keep guessing until he hit the right spot in his brother’s head.
“And, my favorite song is?”
“Let me see. Wait, wait—”
“Name three. Can you name three?” Gustavo took a final drag
from his cigarette and tossed the butt down the steps, aiming for his boots.
“Okay, okay, I got it. Let’s see, ‘Respect,’ that’s one.”
“Aretha!” He said her name like he was friends with her.
“That’s good, that’s good, keep going.”
“ ‘Somebody to Love.’ ”
“Jefferson Airplane—that’s fuckin’ excellent.”
charl ie . g us t avo. l 105
“And anything by Johnny Rivers.”
“Johnny Rivers, bro? C’mon, hey, that’s passé, baby.”
“Okay. I got it. The Doors.”
“Yesss! The Doors.”
“ ‘Light My Fire.’ ”
Gustavo laughed. “I’m fuckin’ impressed.”
“Sure you are.”
“Fuckin’ impressed. I mean it. And what else?”
“You said three.”
“You’re on a roll, baby.”
“ ‘Purple Haze.’ ”
“Yessssss! My man Jimi! I am fucking impressed. I mean I am, Charlie.”
Charlie smiled and looked down at the cement steps. “And
mine, Gus?”
“Let’s see. You always like those candy ass songs.”
“Knock it off. I can like anything I want.”
“Yeah, that’s right, free country, oh yes. Free, free, free. They’re fightin’ in Nam so you can listen to anything you fuckin’ want.”
“Don’t mess with me like that, Gus.”
“Me? Mess with you? Not me, Charlie. Let’s see, now, you
like Simon and Garfunkel.”
“You’re making fun.”
“I’m not. They’re cool. You know, in that gringo kind of way
that’s way urban white cool. New York cool. But you know, they don’t know shit about Chicanos.”
“No one knows shit about Chicanos. Not even the Doors.”
Gustavo winced. “What do you know, anyway?”
“I know. I fucking know, Gus.”
“Hey, hey, nice mouth.”
“You say fuck all the time.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
106 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e
“Fourteen, bro?”
“Well, okay, I’ll be fourteen in three months.”
“So that makes you what, thirteen? I bet you don’t even get
it up yet.”
“Knock it off, Gus—”
“You’re blushing. Just like a gringo.”
“Knock it off. I mean it, Gus. And you know what? Mom says
you sometimes act like you’re ten.”
“Yeah, Mom, well, you know, she’s Mom.”
Charlie nodded. “Yeah. But she’s great.”
“Yeah, she is great. But you think everyone’s great.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. Look, bro, that’s a good thing. You’re a good
little guy. I think you should keep it that way.”
Good little guy. He hated that.
“Yup, you like Simon and Garfunkel—and you like the Mon-
kees, too.”
“Everyone likes the Monkees.”
“Everyone who’s thirteen. They suck, bro. They really suck.”
“Well, I like Peter, Paul, and Mary—and I like that song ‘So-
ciety’s Child.’ ”
“Peter Paul and Mary, huh?” He seemed to be studying the
sky. Not that he was really studying anything. “ ‘Society’s Child,’
huh? Yeah? That’s good. That’s way cool, Charlie. Maybe there’s some hope for you. But you know, that song’s way too old for a little guy like you.”
Little guy. Charlie hated that.
lourde s . o c t avio.
Lourdes Espejo looked out the living room window, awed by her
two sons on the front porch—talking, laughing, sometimes even
touching. They were beautiful. Together and separately—beauti-
ful in ways that only boys could be and only mothers could ap-
preciate. And beautiful in such singular and different ways. It was obvious to her that most young women who had the good or bad
fortune of encountering her oldest son would halfway fall in love with him. Seduction was part of his genetic makeup, the graceful, casual way he inhabited his own body—so graceful that you didn’t even call it grace. But there was also something dangerous about him— and even that was a part of his beauty, part of what made you look at him. Young women liked to flirt with danger,
especially young women who didn’t understand how easily a life could be ruined.
Her younger son was arresting, lovely, fragile. His face, a
magnet. She saw the way people stared at him, as if they could
108 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e hardly believe such a creature existed. A woman at a shop asked her once, “Is he real?” She’d nodded and smiled, but she herself had asked herself the same question. Despite his almost feminine features, he was stronger than most suspected, and she wished all men possessed his kind of poise—the kind of man who was incapable of making you afraid, the kind of man who would rather absorb pain than inflict it. He simply didn’t comprehend cruelty.
She asked him once why he had lent his notes out to the girl
down the street. “She’s taking advantage of you.”
He smiled and shook his head. “No, she’s not.”
“But they’re your notes.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mom.”
“She’s just using you. She doesn’t even like you.”
“I don’t think I like her very much, either.”
“Then why are you helping her?”
“Because I want to.”
“But she’ll get a good grade using your notes.”
“Why does that matter?”
“ You’re helping her cheat.”
“How would it help if she flunked?”
“Then maybe she’d study.”
“No. She’d just flunk. She’s poor. Her dad ’s a drunk. What does she have? She’d flunk, Mom. I don’t want that.”
She
smiled at the memory. No one could talk him out of
anything once he decided on a course of action. Because he was kind, you hardly noticed his stubbornness. She had stopped being afraid for him.
It was Gustavo she was afraid for. He was easily wounded,
despite the mask he wore. Like his father, he did not possess the necessary tools to handle pain when it came his way. He would
get hurt. That hurt would disfigure him. She was sure of that.
What then? What would become of all that beauty?
She clutched at the curtain as she saw Gustavo laugh at some-
lourde s . o c t avio. l 109
thing Charlie said. She had always been surprised by the great affection they shared. She couldn’t help but smile as she watched them. Playing—that’s what they were doing, what they did. Because they were boys.
“Are you spying on them again?”
She stood motionless for an instant, then answered her accus-
er without bothering to turn around. “I like to watch my sons.”
“Why is it you never watch Xochil that way?”
“Xochil isn’t a foreign thing.”
“Maybe that’s because she’s just like you.”
She turned around and faced her husband. “Is she?”
“Yes. Even the way she laughs.”
“I’m not so sure. I think it’s Gustavo who’s more like me.”
“He’s not like you at all. Gustavo’s not like anyone.” He nod-
ded to himself.
He was filing something away. It was like he had pockets in-
side him where he kept things so he could take them out at just the right moment. Lourdes half cursed herself for noticing every small detail about her husband. It wasn’t always a good thing to know someone so well. Surprises were hard to come by.
“You like to watch them too much, Lourdes.”
She turned around and watched them again, Charlie frown-
ing at some callous remark his brother had uttered. Her older
son was careless with his words. And Charlie was so literal
about everything. “Better to watch your sons than to watch
television.”
“Depends on what you’re watching. Television can be enlight-
ening.”
“Watching your sons can be even more enlightening. They’re
good together. That’s a beautiful thing.”
Octavio nodded. “Well, maybe not so beautiful. I don’t want
Gustavo infecting Charlie.”
“Infecting?”
110 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e
“That’s the word.”
“He’s not a disease.”
“He has ideas.”
“Which only means he has a mind.”
“Not much of one, I don’t think.”
“He has a very fine mind, amor. Better than most.”
“Is that why he hangs posters of revolutionaries and prosti -
tutes on his bedroom walls?”
“César Chávez is fighting for good pay, amor. Good pay for workers. I don’t see anything revolutionary in that. Imagine,
workers getting paid for what they do.” She let the curtain drop from her grasp. “And Jane Fonda is an actress, amor, not a prostitute.”
“All actresses are prostitutes.”
“And Mexicans eat nothing but beans.”
“Are you picking a fight with me?”
“Today, amor, I’m up for a fight if you are.”
Octavio shook his head. He wasn’t at his best—not today.
“You spend your days looking for ways to excuse his behavior.”
“I spend my days caring for your mother, amor, and taking care of this house.” She knew how to silence him, an easy enough art.
He took out a cigarette and lit it. “It doesn’t do any good to defend him.”
“From what? From whom?” She turned around and faced him.
“What exactly has Gustavo done to make you dislike him?”
“I don’t dislike him.”
“Maybe that’s the wrong word. Maybe the word is stronger
than dislike.”
“You always get that look on your face when you’re accusing
me of something.”
“What look?”
“Damn it to hell, Lourdes, I don’t dislike my own son.”
lourde s . o c t avio. l 111
“Cursing, amor? Is that for emphasis? I can do that too. I can roll around in the mud with the best of them. Is that what you want?”
“I want you to discipline your son.”
“Because you can’t?”
“Because you find everything he does acceptable.” He got up
from his chair, walked up to where he kept his liquor, and poured himself a healthy bourbon. He turned to his wife. “Would you
like something?”
“A Tía Maria and a new husband.”
“I can take care of the Tía Maria. The new husband is up to
you.” He was surprised by the sound of his own laughter.
She joined in, why not, yes, sure, why not? He could be charm-
ing—even now.
He poured her the dark coffee liqueur in one of her favor-
ite crystal glasses. He walked across the room and handed his
wife her drink. He peered out the window. “He wears armbands.
They’re black. Like his eyes. He says he hates war—but then
hangs up posters of Che Guevara? Did he think our revolution
was bloodless?”
“Ours? Which one was ours, Octavio?”
“We’re American, Lourdes.”
“Well, yes, since we have to choose.” A look of impatience
moved over her face, then disappeared. “Well, anyway, what difference does it make which revolution? American, Mexican,
French, Russian, they’re all marinated in blood.”
“Marinated?”
“That’s the word.” She kept her smile far away from her lips.
She studied Octavio’s face, the look of disapproval that was so intimate and familiar. “We turn men into meat, isn’t that so? Aren’t wars like favorite dishes?”
“I’d forgotten you’d once wanted to be an actress.”
“Changing the subject insults us both.”
112 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e He offered her a puzzled smile. He thought a moment, focusing his attention back to her absurd expression. “Marinated,” he repeated.
She could almost touch his disdain. Wars to a man like her
husband were honorable and noble and she was impatient with
his romantic notions of soldiers and warriors and the sacrifice of their blood. “Marinated,” she said again.
“You think revolutions shouldn’t be fought because people
die?”
“People don’t die in revolutions, they get killed.”
“Killed. Yes. Fine, Lourdes. But revolutions are necessary. We both know that, corazón.”
“Which revolutions are necessary? Which ones? Fidel Cas-
tro’s? Russia’s?”
“Not all revolutions are of equal—”
“Now we get to it.”
“Are we fighting about the merits of the revolutions of the
world?” He shook his head. He would not argue, did not want to argue with her about this subject when there could be no agreement. “All I’m trying to say, corazón, is that Gustavo doesn’t know a damn thing about war.”
“Che Guevara isn’t a person, amor—not to him. He’s an idea.
War? Revolutions? He hasn’t a clue. I think we should keep it
that way, don’t you, corazón?”
“Are you mocking me?”
She pointed her face at him. “Because I called you corazón?”
She smiled.
“Men learn to work, and part of their work is to learn about
war.
It’s what we’re born to.”
“It’s women who are born to work, Octavio. And the last
time I looked, it was women, not war, who turned boys into
men.”
He laughed, then breathed in the smell of the bourbon. He
lourde s . o c t avio. l 113
took a sip, then held it on his tongue. “By the time I got to Italy, the war was almost over. All I did was pick up bodies.”
“And that made you a man?”
“I never said it did.”
“You’re contradicting yourself, Octavio.”
“Am I?”
“And so you’re telling me picking up bodies didn’t make you
hate the war?”
“It made me hate the Germans. It made me hate Mussolini.”
Lourdes put the crystal glass to her lips. It was cold. Not even winter yet. “He says he won’t go.”
“Go?”
“To Vietnam.”
“You encouraged him?”
“He says he won’t die for something he doesn’t believe in.”
“You practically put the words in his mouth, Lourdes.”
“The only thing I put in his mouth is the food he eats.” She
took a sip from her liqueur. “I listened, Octavio. It’s not a crime for a mother to listen to her son.”
“ You should take that armband off—before your father gets home.”
Gustavo listened as the water from the tap cracked the ice in his glass. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point, Lourdes?”
“I’m not Lourdes, I’m your mother.”
He tapped his cheek as if to slap himself. “Sorry.” He drank down the water, part of it cold, part of it still tepid, then sat at the kitchen table. “What good ’s the quiet, Mom?”
“The quiet’s good for reading.”
“This family’s overread.”
“Overread?”
“We read too much. Doesn’t seem to help us get along, does it?” He
114 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e smiled, laughed, shook his head. “Mom, you can’t spend your life playing referee.”
“I have spent my life playing referee.”
“Then you have to stop.”
“ You don’t agree on the war. Just leave it.”
“We don’t agree on anything. And leaving it doesn’t do any good. I feel like all my words are stuck in my throat. I can’t breathe.”
She knew what that was like. “ You can say the words, mi amor .”
“Just not to him, is that it, Mom?”
“That’s right.”
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