Names on a Map

by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

  we hated Gonzalez for it.

  After this, we knew to keep our laughter to ourselves.

  And Gonzalez learned to keep his laughter a fucking secret.

  This is fucking serious, baby.

  This is not a fucking joke. To be a warrior is no laughing

  matter. There is a fucking war going on. You think that’s fucking funny, maggot? Maybe a bullet up your ass will make you laugh, too, huh, maggot?

  The DIs, they go to school and learn their lines. They teach

  us ours.

  They will tear us down, minute by minute, hour by hour, pull

  up by pull up, push-up by push-up, squat thrust by squat thrust.

  Our minds and bodies will be transformed. I won’t be me any-

  more. I’ll be a part of a team. The team will be what matters.

  The team will be the only country you love. You will fight for them. If they live, you live.

  I understood all this. From the start, I understood everything.

  I fucking knew I was going to learn to fight. And I was going to live. This was my war. Mine.

  It all made perfect sense.

  g us t avo

  He took the envelope, studied it, scrutinized it, almost willed the contents of the letter to change. But he’d already gotten the first half of the news, the one that had ordered him to report for a physical. He’d told no one, had taken the letter the day it had arrived and hidden it in one of the books he’d been carrying.

  He’d reported for his physical, had taken the bus, had answered the questions on the forms, had thought about lying— Yes, he had thoughts of suicide; yes, he was a homosexual; yes, he was a member of subversive groups— but he’d told the truth, answered everything correctly, though he was not convinced he was a loyal American.

  There was only a few of them that morning, maybe fifteen, and

  there had been seven doctors. “You’re lucky,” the doctor said, not so busy this morning. His hands were warm. “A fine, strong boy.

  Damn strong, almost perfect.” The doctor himself was a former

  member of the draft board. “I fought in the Pacific theater,” he said, already half bored with his own story, as if the war he’d

  168 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e fought in was nothing more than an epic tragedy with millions of people watching in their seats. Or perhaps he wasn’t bored at all.

  Perhaps it hurt so much that he had to maintain a distance. The blood had been too real. The price had been too high. The pain had been too much to bear, and all of it was still there, the battles, all of them bottled and corked like an old wine and he could still smell the rotting bodies, the fields of burned flesh, the bruise on his back where a dismembered leg had hit him, knocking him

  to the ground after the bomb hit, the head, helmet still on, eyes still open, George, no just George’s head, George who had been smoking a cigarette and laughing not ten minutes before and

  then the doctor’s eyes suddenly returning to the room, that quiet controlled, friendly smile on his face. “You’re more perfect than I ever was.”

  Gustavo looked into the old doctor’s eyes. “You could have

  been killed.”

  “It’s a roll of the dice, son. Some are meant to die and some

  aren’t.”

  “Lucky you,” he said.

  “Now son, don’t take that tone.” He studied Gustavo’s face

  for an instant. “You got the look of someone who’s going to live a long time.”

  Gustavo nodded. Right, so now he’s fucking Nostradamus.

  The old doctor patted him on the shoulder. “Strong as an

  ox,” he said. “You’ll do just fine. Good eyes, I can see that. Good reflexes. Be a good soldier, I think. And a good shot.”

  Yeah, sure, good shot. What was the difference between a ten

  point buck and a Viet Cong guerilla? What a thing to be think-

  ing. Sick, sick, you’re fucking sick, Gustavo. Sick.

  “Yup, a good shot.”

  “What’s it like, to kill a man?”

  The doctor shook his head. “We have to do what we have

  to do. And if we think about it too damned much, it’ll make us

  g us t avo l 169

  crazy. The world doesn’t need more crazy. Are you listening, son?

  Are you listening?”

  His voice was kind. He was old and seemed decent, not like

  the others who half hated you and looked at you and your long

  hair like maybe they’d just as soon kill you as kill the Viet Cong.

  Yes, the old doctor had been kind. But —if we think about it too damned much—

  So the fucking letter had arrived. The notice. Hell, maybe he

  could sleep now. Maybe the dream would go away now, the one

  where someone was chasing him, someone with a gun or a rifle,

  someone he thought might be a soldier but he was never sure,

  never saw the man who was chasing him and he’d wake up in the

  middle of the night drenched in sweat and he’d be trembling, his lips quivering and he would walk quietly to the kitchen and try to quench a thirst that would follow him into the day. Well, Gustavo, no more fucking waiting. He walked toward downtown. He lit a cigarette. When he got to San Jacinto Plaza, he opened the letter.

  There was a date and time to report. Two weeks. That was all he had. “Two fucking weeks.”

  An old man sat next to him and stared. He pointed his chin

  at him and asked him for a cigarette.

  Gustavo handed him what was left of his pack.

  The old man took it, not an ounce of gratitude written on his

  face. He carefully took a cigarette out of the pack, then looked at Gustavo. “Los cigarros matan.”

  Yeah, yeah, Gustavo thought, cigarettes kill. There’re a lot of things in this sad damned world that could kill a guy. Maybe

  cigarettes were the least of it. He nodded, stuffed the letter in his back pocket, and walked across the street. He walked into

  the Kress and bought himself a pack of Marlboros. He remem-

  bered the Saturdays his mother had brought them with her as

  she did her shopping. She would stop at Kress and buy them

  popcorn. He remembered how he and Xochil would feed Charlie

  170 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e the soft kernels, how Charlie would hold each morsel, then lick it, then chew it slowly. He remembered how he’d kiss them when he finished and yell, “More! More!” And then he would kiss them again. A born kisser.

  He opened the pack of cigarettes. He lit one. He decided he’d

  go to Juárez. Anywhere but home.

  lourde s . ros ar io. xo ch i l .

  There would be enough time to do. To do the duties that the

  house demanded, to do the dishes, the pedestrian chores that

  made up her life. There would be time to sweep up the mess, the litter that the dead left behind. There would be time to do—and the doing would swallow her—if she let it. To hell with it. To hell with it all. She would take this moment, small and insignificant as it was, and make it hers. She would stop the clock. She would sit and hold her daughter in her arms as if she were still a child instead of the woman she’d become. She could feel Xochil’s tears on her cotton dress, her heart pounding, her breathing very nearly desperate as she sobbed. Her Xochil was lost, though she was unsure if her confusion had anything to do with death. Perhaps it had more to do with that boy whose name she was always forget-ting. Young women were more frightened by boys than they were

  of death, not even realizing that boys were a kind of death. She didn’t remember anymore, not really, what it had been like to be

  172 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e a young woman in love. Octavio had grown old on her so quickly.

  Long before it was necessary.

  How could a woman who didn’t remember falling in love help

  a daughter
? Perhaps it wasn’t necessary to help her. Love never needed any help from mothers or fathers. She realized at that moment that she had found it easier to understand her mother-in-

  law than to understand her own daughter. It was all a function of age. Was that it? There was no other explanation. Daughters. They were sometimes as familiar and intimate as honeysuckles in bloom, but mostly daughters were mysteries. They lived in rooms you had long since abandoned and could not, did not, ever want to reenter.

  Finally, she felt Xochil’s tears subside. She rubbed her back

  softly, just as she had done when she was a baby.

  “Are you thinking about her?”

  “Yes,” Lourdes whispered. “She loved you.”

  “Yes. But really it was you she loved.”

  She laughed. “I was only a daughter-in-law.”

  “You’re wrong. It was you she loved most of all.”

  “She loved your father.”

  “I don’t think so. Not really. He was only the car that drove

  you to her. But you were the destination.”

  “Where do you get these ideas, these things you say? You’re

  just a girl.”

  “I have eyes, Mama.”

  “So do I. And I see that not all your tears are for you grand-

  mother.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this in front of my grandmother.”

  “Oh, I think she’d like to hear.”

  “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “He won’t leave until you do.”

  “Leave?”

  “He’ll live inside you until you talk, until you throw him out.”

  Xochil shook her head and broke away from her mother’s

  lourde s . ros ar io. xo ch i l . l 173

  arms. She sat on the bed and stared at her grandmother. “I’ve

  never seen a dead woman before.”

  “She’s the first of many, amor.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Don’t run from it, Xochil.”

  Xochil nodded, then placed her hand on her Grandmother’s

  chest, almost as if she were making sure her grandmother’s heart had stopped beating. “Do you remember?”

  “Remember?”

  “What she was like when you met her?”

  “ You’re absolutely sure you love my son?”

  “Why else would I marry him?”

  “Women marry men for as many reasons as there are leaves on a tree.” Rosario turned toward Lourdes, her hair perfect and pulled back, her skin still flawless, her gray eyes direct and unforgiving. She was a severe beauty, as severe as the desert. Lourdes wondered if she had always been that way. “ You’re poor.”

  Lourdes almost smiled at the accusation. “We’re all poor. What’s the use in pretending?”

  “In Mexico, we had—”

  Lourdes cut Rosario off before she could finish. “Mexico is all in the past.”

  “Mexico still owns us.”

  “Mexico exiled us.”

  “No, it was Villa who did that.”

  “Villa’s just a man. He’ll die soon enough.”

  She looked as if her pain was more physical than emotional. “Everything’s gone now.” She looked away from Lourdes, then reached for her cup of coffee. She sipped on it, then looked back at Lourdes. “I never could make a good cup of coffee. Maybe you’ll do better than me.”

  Lourdes shrugged. She’d been making coffee for her parents since she was ten. Not an art that challenged her.

  174 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e

  “ You think you’re better because you were born in this country.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “All right then. I think I’m better.”

  “ You’re not.”

  “ You see. It doesn’t matter what I answer.”

  “I knew your mother in Mexico. You were born late to her. A con -

  solation. Was she disappointed—”

  “Never speak of my mother.”

  Rosario nodded. “I apologize.” She put down her cup of coffee. “I heard you had planned to go away. To study letters. Or was it theater?

  Isn’t that what I was told?”

  “I have no idea what you were told.”

  “Have some respect. You’re not talking to some peasant.”

  “Neither are you.”

  Rosario looked directly into her. “I can see that.” She paused. “Is it true?”

  “It’s not a crime to love poetry and books.”

  “My son wants children. You’ll have to learn to read your books as you nurse.”

  “When did she learn to love you?”

  “It started, I think, on the day you and Gustavo were born.”

  Lourdes laughed softly. “I’d almost forgotten how she’d hated

  me. Not hate, really, now that I think about it. She was just

  afraid.”

  “Afraid?”

  “That things would turn out badly for her son.”

  Xochil nodded. “We’re all afraid, aren’t we?”

  Lourdes studied her daughter’s face. “You’re sad today.”

  “Yes.”

  “It isn’t just your grandmother.”

  “There’s a lot to cry about, Mama.”

  lourde s . ros ar io. xo ch i l . l 175

  Lourdes found herself whispering, “Tears are like clothes—

  hang them out in the sun for a few minutes and they dry.”

  That made Xochil smile. Her mother was always saying things

  like that. “Mom, tears aren’t anything like clothes.”

  “Maybe not.” She walked across the small room and opened

  the window, letting the cool breeze hit her face. She took a breath.

  “Bring me the roses from the vase in the dining room. I’ll call the doctor.”

  “What for?”

  “He’ll pronounce her dead.”

  “Pronounce her dead,” Xoxhil repeated. “And the roses?”

  “I’m told it takes away the smell of death.”

  “I don’t mind the smell.”

  Lourdes nodded. “I don’t either.”

  “Should I tell Dad—”

  Lourdes paused, then shook her head. “I’ll tell him. I just

  need— I’ll tell him.”

  Xochil nodded, then left the room.

  Lourdes looked toward the door, then sat on her mother-

  in-law’s bed. She squeezed the old woman’s lifeless hands and

  decided she would stay for a while longer. There would be time enough to tell her husband, time enough to call the doctor and the priest, time enough to call the mortuary, time enough to call the relatives. There would be time enough for everything.

  The dead had learned how to wait.

  adam

  Da Nang, Viet Nam

  When you were growing up, Vietnam was not a country that

  existed on your map. Your world was small then. You did not

  even know the capital of North Dakota. You remember driving

  across Texas once with your family. You remember your mother’s submission in the face of your father’s anger. You pretended to study the map that was on your lap.

  There is too much remembering now.

  The rain is coming down again. Not a downpour. Not a driz-

  zle. Wet, for sure, for fucking sure. Sometimes, you can’t even smoke a cigarette.

  You huddle together, you and two other members of your fire

  squad. You have each other and a poncho and a helmet. But you are always, always wet. And you are always, always cold. You cannot sleep. You wish you were like Whit, who can sleep standing up.

  There is nothing to do but listen to the rain and think.

  And when you think you think only of home.

  adam l 177

  You remember the day you left El Paso. You had your orders,

  your
papers, your few possessions, in a backpack: a few pictures of your brothers, your mom, a picture of all your friends, a picture of Glen, who was killed when you were eight. You do not know

  why you keep the picture of Glen—but you keep it. To remind

  yourself that you were the one who lived? That you are a survivor? Is that why?

  Your few possessions and a plane ticket to San Diego. Eighty-

  four dollars and sixty-two cents. A hangover. That is what you had when you left home.

  You are looking over your room. You are glad to leave. But

  now you would be glad to return.

  You see yourself standing on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathe-

  dral, posing for a picture with your brothers. Smile, smile, smile, fucking smile. And you do. You are walking into the church and you are kneeling down to pray, though you do not know what

  to pray for. You are not scared. You want to go. You want to

  learn about that word man. And that word war too. You want to know.

  But your mother is sad and you hate that. She says she is

  proud. But you wonder about her tears, what they mean.

  You pray for your mother. You pray for the soul of your father, who was a bastard. You do not miss him, but you light a candle for his eternal soul, though a part of you hopes he is burning in the pits of hell. You light another candle, one for your mother.

  You tell God to take away her tears.

  Outside, you take a picture with your friends.

  You take a taxi to the airport. Alone. That is the way you

  wanted it.

  You remember laughing and joking with the group outside

  your house, all of them who had come to say good-bye—but

  you remember none of the jokes. But you still see yourself. With them. And you think you might have been happy.

  178 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e You remember the way your mother smelled. Good-bye,

  good-bye. You see yourself waving. You feel kisses on your cheek, the embrace of Sam, your high school friend who taught you

  about weed and the art of looking at a girl so she would look

  back.

  Sometimes you want to be in that church again, lighting a

  candle.

  Sometimes you want to be sitting in your mother’s old beat-up

  Ford, windows down, at the Oasis Drive-in. You can see the straw in your mouth. You can taste the root beer. The sun is out and there is nothing in the world except you and the root beer you are drinking.