Secrets of the Casa Rosada

by Alex Temblador

  “What do you mean by you ‘saw’ what was wrong?”

  “Saw, see. With my eyes. I thought you were smart.” She nudged my shoulder.

  “I am! But you’re telling me something that sounds crazy. You make it sound like I will be able to see the disease.”

  She nodded. “Yes, that is exactly it.”

  “I don’t know if I buy it. What does disease even look like?”

  “Dark and ugly.”

  Figures. “So if this is real, how do I make it happen?”

  “With your don.”

  “I know that, but how?”

  She stopped and looked at me. “By not complaining during reflexión, by trying to find your don inside you . . . and by believing.”

  I silently vowed to never complain about reflexión again. Although Abuela said this don stuff wasn’t magic, it sure sounded that way to me, and I wanted to experience it myself.

  Still, watching my grandmother work on patients was another experience entirely. I had started to become comfortable in the culturally unique world of Laredo. Perhaps it was because I had learned Spanish so rapidly and it linked me to everything. But after witnessing the different ways in which my grandmother cured illnesses, I was thrown seven steps back from what I thought I had gained in understanding the Mexican culture.

  She used eggs to massage the arthritic joints of her ailing patients. She spat on the chest of children to rid them of whooping cough. She gave a woman a dried hummingbird as a love charm. She threw holy water in the shape of a cross on the bodies of dying patients and knelt, praying for hours, sometimes aloud, and then she’d place her hands on the parts of their body that were failing and pray to God to heal them. She cured someone of fright—susto—yes, fright! As if someone could get sick by being scared? I gained a whole new set of vocabulary words that dealt with illnesses that weren’t illnesses at all. Susto, mal de ojo, nerviosismo . . . illnesses caused by fright so that the soul became lost, illnesses caused by people looking at you with jealousy, illnesses caused by nervousness. We were not supposed to just cure the physical ailments of someone’s body but their mental state, too!

  It sounded like something a psychologist or a mental hospital should cure. How could someone get sick by being scared? Abuela tried to explain that it was the soul we were curing. And yet, that scared me more. She wanted me to cure a soul? That was a lot of responsibility. I listened more carefully when she explained the spiritual illnesses because I never wanted anyone to come back and say I had ruined their soul.

  “And sometimes they aren’t cured,” Abuela also told me.

  “So, what’s the point of all this if we don’t actually cure them every time?”

  “Do the gringo doctors cure their patients of everything, every time?”

  She had a point. Abuela explained it was give and take in the world, and mostly God’s will, and how much the person believed in what we did or if they wanted to be healed.

  I was still an outsider to the whole religious aspect of curanderismo—the God part. I did not understand something I had no attachment to yet. Although Abuela pushed me to “feel God” and “hear God,” you can’t force someone until they are ready to touch and listen.

  It took time, and day by day, the things I saw and experienced started to become more normal to me, started to make sense.

  A few weeks into my apprenticeship, Marcela and her friends marched up to me in the hallway on my way to class.

  “Hey, puta, I heard you have a new job.”

  Instead of stopping, I kept walking, so she had to walk faster to keep up with me.

  “You hear a lot of things about me, Marcela. Some would call it an obsession.”

  Everyone stopped in the hallway and stared at us as we walked by. Suddenly, Marcela sprinted ahead of me and cut me off.

  “What do you want? I need to get to class,” I said.

  Marcela’s eyes darkened with anger, and the vein on her forehead pulsed faster. “I asked you a question. Are you apprenticing to your damn grandmother?’

  I don’t know if I was tired from all the extra work Abuela had given me, or if I was just tired of Marcela speaking to me like that and cursing my grandmother, but I let her get to me.

  “Yes! What does it matter?”

  “You told me you weren’t her apprentice.” Her face reddened beneath her pale make-up.

  “I wasn’t then, but I am now. And I’m tired of you being pissed off because Abuela turned you away.” As soon as I said the words, I felt so much truth in them. But I wanted those words back in my mouth because I knew right away that I had pissed her off more than ever.

  Marcela pulled a fist back, ready to take a punch at the same time that I made my hands into fists.

  It was then that a ninth-grade science teacher spoke up. “Is there a problem here?”

  The teacher stood by her door on the opposite side of the hallway, staring at us. Everyone around us became quiet, tensed for something to happen. I returned my focus back to Marcela. I saw it: she hated me with so much passion she could barely contain it.

  One of her thug friends moved between us, gave me a cold stare and said in a low voice, “Come on, Marcela. You know you can’t get expelled again.”

  I looked at the teacher and said, “We’re fine, Mrs. . . .” I looked past her at the sign next to her door. “Mrs. Gómez. Everything is fine.”

  I turned back around to see that Marcela had moved closer to me while her friend had moved to the side. She was so close that I saw the lines between the shades of grey and black eye shadow she had applied that morning.

  Marcela spoke low so that not even her friend could hear. “Talk to me like that again, little girl, and you’re going to feel my steel in your gut.”

  She patted her jean pocket, where something stretched against the fabric. My first thought went to the rumor Laura had told me when I first moved here, of the girl that Marcela had almost stabbed to death. First fear shot through me, then anger.

  “No, you listen to me. Leave me alone. With the stuff I’m learning from Abuela, your ‘steel’ can’t hurt me.”

  It was a lie. I knew it before the words were coming out, but she didn’t know that. Marcela wanted something stronger than steel, something that would bring fear just by saying the name. I only knew the basic healing properties of herbs. I didn’t know curses, or spells, or any mal that could hurt others, but I wanted Marcela to think I did. I knew she’d believe it, because that is what she wanted. Power. Control.

  Her eyes widened a bit, and she stepped back. Not exactly in fear, but in awe, or perhaps desire. She wanted to be my grandmother’s apprentice. Wanted the knowledge of curanderas but for all the wrong reasons.

  I walked past her and headed to class.

  Sunday, at another primo’s house after church, I snuck into the bedroom and called the list of Jorge Valdezeses first. While some numbers were disconnected, a few Jorges answered. It wasn’t until the sixth number I called that I had some kind of luck. The man who answered wasn’t Jorge, but his cousin, Felipe. He said my mother’s name sounded familiar, maybe Jorge knew my mother and maybe he didn’t. He gave me the address of Jorge’s job, Gutierrez Body Shop. He said I would find Jorge there seven days a week. I thanked him and hung up. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to call any of the Carlitas because a few of my little cousins found me in the bedroom and dragged me out to the front yard to push them on an old, wooden swing.

  The next day, when the bell had rung for school to be let out, I asked Laura if she knew where the Gutierrez Body Shop was. She shifted her book bag to her other shoulder and grabbed the paper I had with Jorge’s name and the name of the garage.

  “Yeah, I know it. It’s down the street from the downtown market, where my mom’s shop is.”

  “Shop?”

  “My mom owns a boutique called Sofía’s Cosa’s. She sells nickknacks, jewelry, clothes, house stuff.”

  Laura gave me directions from the school to the garage. The downtown
market was the same one that Abuela had taken me to on the first weekend I had arrived in Laredo. It wasn’t that far from the house, so the garage would be within walking distance, too.

  Before Laura gave me the piece of paper back she pulled it closer to her face and squinted. “Valdez?” She looked up at me.

  I grabbed the paper from her. “Just someone I need to talk to. Why?”

  “I’m a Valdez.”

  I fumbled with one of my textbooks and then caught it. She was right. I vaguely remember her telling me her last name was Valdez when we first met. God, I was stupid.

  “Do you know a Jorge Valdez?”

  She shook her head no. “Sorry, I don’t even know my own dad.”

  “Is Valdez his last name?”

  “Yeah, my mom gave it to me, but she won’t even tell me his first name. Says he died long ago, so there’s no reason I should know about him.”

  “Sounds like something Abuela would say.”

  Laura giggled. “Well, good luck with finding the guy. Why do you need to talk to him?”

  I wasn’t going to have that conversation. “Sorry, I gotta get home. Abuela will kill me if I’m five minutes late.” I waved and started to turn away.

  “Martha, wait.” Laura looked behind her, then to her side. She walked closer to me and spoke low. “Look, if you get a chance, come by my mom’s shop sometime on a Saturday. I work there on the weekends.”

  “You know if Abuela found out, I’d be dead.”

  Laura’s eyes darted back and forth. “I know, but this is important. I have to show you something. My mom works in the back doing inventory on Saturdays, so she wouldn’t even see you.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I could tr . . . ”

  “Okay, good.” Laura smiled. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Soon.” She gave me one last stare before turning around and walking off.

  That was weird. I headed for the Pepto Bismol house. I didn’t really have time to think about Laura’s request. I had more important things on my mind. Like how I was going to actually go to the garage, since my grandmother was always at home, and with my curandera apprenticeship, I barely had time to finish school work at night. More patience? It was almost the end of October. As soon as I found out where my mother was, I was going to flip out on her for making me go through all this work.

  A few days later, I returned home to find the Cadillac missing and the house empty. I was more of a believer in God at that moment than ever before. There was a note on the kitchen table written in English. It said that my grandmother had been called to an emergency on the opposite side of the border and that she would return home late. There were leftovers in the fridge. It was signed by Gloria with the following written beneath her name: “P.S. Act right, chica.”

  I didn’t waste a second thinking about what I was about to do. I dropped my backpack and rushed out the front door. It was a twenty-five-minute walk to the garage and I didn’t know how long it would take to talk to the guy. Besides, I wanted to return as quickly as possible, just in case Abuela returned early.

  I practically ran to the garage and got there in fifteen minutes, sweating. Even though it was October, it was still hot. The garage, a rusted gray building that looked ready to topple over, stood on a corner. Cars, some fairly old, yet with new paint jobs and new accessories, stood in between newer, broken-down cars with missing or rusted parts in the front drive of the garage and in the street. A large garage door stood open on the left side. Three guys worked on a red Chevy with the hood popped open while another watched.

  This was it. Would he be here? Would he be the right Jorge Valdez, or was he lost and my mother with him? I didn’t have long to think or be nervous. Abuela was going to come home whether I got my answers or not. I walked to the open garage door. Before I was even fifteen feet from it, the man who had been watching the three guys work noticed me.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  My mouth became dry. He looked down at me over his bushy, grey mustache.

  “Sí, uh, does a Jorge Valdez work here?” I asked.

  The man regarded me for a second, debating whether or not to tell me. Then he motioned with his head to the right. A lone man worked under the hood of a cream-colored car on the other side of the garage.

  “Gracias.” I felt the old man’s eyes watching me as I walked away. Now that I was in the garage, the overwhelming stench of oil and grease and the heavy, rubber smell of tires assaulted me. Instead of pulling my shirt over my nose like I wanted to, I focused on my target.

  The man known as Jorge Valdez was hidden in the depths of the car’s opened hood. I wasn’t sure if it was him. The man wore a white tank with faded blue jeans that had oil and grime marks down the sides of them, as if he wiped his hands on them every few seconds. His arms were a tanned brown and a little on the meaty side. His stomach rolled over the edge of his jeans, even more so since he was bent over.

  As I walked up, Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” rang out. No way. Rock in Laredo? I couldn’t contain myself.

  “Is Zeppelin actually on the radio?”

  The man stood up and turned to me, holding a screwdriver. It was him, the Jorge Valdez I was looking for. Even after all those years, the youthful teenager shone out from the hardened lines of his face. His deep widow’s peak looked more pronounced with the straight, black, hair that fell around his face. A thick, black mustache coated his upper lip now, but damn it, it was Jorge.

  He looked at me, his head cocked to the side. “You like Zeppelin?”

  “Yeah. But I didn’t know anyone else down here did. I’ve only heard Tejano and cumbias and stuff.”

  Smiling, Jorge placed the screwdriver in his front pocket and grabbed a towel hanging on the hood. He leaned casually against the truck as he wiped his hands.

  “There’s a few of us down here who like rock. A group of us even get together and play, but we don’t get many gigs,” he said.

  I smiled. And he played in a band? My mom’s cup of tea.

  Then he asked, “How old are you, kid?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Don’t know many sixteen-year-olds who like bands like Zeppelin. You guys are usually into that punk stuff.”

  I didn’t know how to respond, so I just shrugged.

  My mother had dated a guy once, Bob, who had worked for a rock & roll radio station. Each time she took me to the station, he’d introduce me to a new album of a different band: Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Aerosmith, The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix and the list went on. Bob was the only guy who had ever paid me much attention.

  “So is that on the radio?” I asked.

  He laughed, and it was his laugh that made me see why my mother had fallen for him. He was pretty handsome even for an old guy. “No, that’s a tape a cousin from Austin sent me.”

  I replied with, “Cool,” just as he finished wiping his hands.

  “So you come to the garage to just talk rock or can I help you with something?”

  “Uh, yes, I think so. My name is Martha George. I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Need a semi-good band for a gig?” he joked.

  I took a second and licked my dry lips. “My mother is Rosa Gonzalez.”

  As soon as her name hit the air, his shoulders stiffened for a second. His feet shuffled away from the car while he looked behind me as if expecting her to be there in the shadows. He was not the joking, relaxed guy he had been a moment ago. Jorge was on edge, a scared animal backed in a corner.

  “Sorry, but I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. You used to be her boyfriend in high school,” I said.

  He laughed mockingly. “Look there were a lot of Rosa Gonzalezes at my school. And I had a lot of girlfriends.”

  My face burned. “I only need a few answers, and then I’ll leave. I just want to know if you’ve seen or talked to her within the last few months.”

  His mouth was set in a grim line, and his dark eyes looked at me with such anger. It was
as if I was uncovering something he had tried to forget. What had just happened? One moment we were talking rock, he was being cool, and now he was lying to me. We stared at each other, neither one wanting to blink first. The chorus played and I caught the lyrics, Eyes that shine burning red . . .

  “I don’t know who . . . ” he began.

  “That’s bullshit. I know you know her. I saw homecoming pictures of you two at school. I know it’s you.”

  He shuffled his feet some more and shook his head, looking like a mad child. “I haven’t seen your mother since high school.”

  “Do you at least know why she left in the first place? What happened?”

  “If you want to know why she left, ask her!” He turned away from me, but I stopped his movement short with my next words.

  “If I knew where she was, I’d ask her. The only people who might tell me something I want to know are you and Carlita Juárez. And since I found you first, I’m here.”

  His body slumped, and his arms hung at his sides. He refused to look at me. “Leave things in the past. Move on. Your mother did.”

  My fists clenched at my side. “Thanks for the advice, cabrón. At least tell me where I can find Carlita Juárez.”

  Jorge looked inside the front hood. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  Whatever had happened with my mother had been big. It had to be. Jorge wanted to keep the secret just as much as Abuela and everyone else in my family did. But why? I didn’t know if he knew how to contact Carlita or not, but fuck it—this pendejo wasn’t going to help me. And to think, for a moment there I had thought he was cool. I turned around to leave.

  “Don’t come back here,” he said softly.

  “Gladly!” I yelled as I stomped past the other workers and the old man with the bushy mustache.

  When Abuela returned home that night, I was already in bed. She opened the door and looked in on me, but my body was wrapped in blankets, turned away from her. I stared at the wall with so much anger that I’m surprised the crucifixes didn’t fall off and clatter to the floor.