by John Rechy
Sylvia Love was too weary now too ask what the hell Clarita meant, but she would later, especially since the older woman had said those very words when they had first met, a few months ago, months filled with unusual events.
2
How Sylvia met Clarita. Clarita’s duel with Eulah Love.
After the Miss Rio Escondido debacle, Sylvia prepared to move out of her mother’s house. Her silent rage grew with the conviction that she would have gone all the way to the Miss America Pageant—and would have won the title. The glamorous Holy Mother Mary had proven to be a partial ally, since her period had resumed, informing her that she was not pregnant; and news of the debacle did not reach Rio Escondido, thanks to the influential Mayor Gonzales, who owned the City’s only newspaper.
“Where are you going?” Eulah Love had just become aware that Sylvia was taking out the last of her possessions from the sadly vined house.
“Away from you.”
“Why?”
Her mother seemed so genuinely baffled that Sylvia did not even answer. Soon, deeper into her concentration for her approaching speech in tongues at the nearing Gathering of Souls, Eulah Love would simply assume her daughter was still there.
Sylvia found an attractive apartment in the center of the City. She had easily gotten a job at the perfume counter of the only department store there, the Fashion Store, a two-story building with variegated counters. She did not return to school; but, thanks to Mayor Gonzales, she had a diploma—he gave it to her in the same coffee shop, same table, during which he had awarded her the title of Miss Rio Escondido. “A diploma says you’re smart, and you are smart and very pretty,” he told her, and received another kiss, which he warmed for long seconds with his hand on his cheek.
Leaving work one afternoon, she encountered a Mexican woman who was arriving with another Mexican woman, both custodians at the store. The older of the two women, with blue-tinted white hair in careful waves, halted when she saw Sylvia. She closed her eyes and struck her forehead with a clenched fist. About to reel, she said, “Dios mío! I must take you immediately to the hills to hide you from the rapists!”
Sylvia ran away from her. The last thing she needed was another lunatic in her life. Catching up with her, one of the salesgirls informed her that the woman was Clarita, who had made quite a reputation for herself among the salesladies by conducting “private consultas,” during which—this was her specialty—she prophesied good news even when they sounded bad at first. “I sure could use her,” Sylvia said dourly, with no intention of ever speaking to the strange woman who, she remembered noticing, had one strange eye as if mist had settled into it.
Soon after, Sylvia was again leaving the store with the other young woman, a plain young woman, always out of breath and thrilled by her association with Sylvia, who retained her aloofness from other girls she was sure disliked her because of her looks. The plain young woman had just mentioned that tonight the “big beauty pageant” was being televised. “I just love watching it because the girls are so silly and untalented, unlike you, Sylvia; I bet you could win if you entered.”
“I did enter and I would have won,” Sylvia heard herself say. “Except that—”The harsh memory stopped her words. “I withdrew.”
Before Sylvia’s friend could react in wonderment, the woman with the strange eye was there as if she had materialized. Insinuating herself into the conversation as if Sylvia’s words had been directed at her—she said. “I’ve seen those others on television, string beans, flat women. But just look at your breasts!” She cupped her hands under her own ample bosom, heaving it up.
Sylvia Love was won over. She smiled at Clarita, but she stopped smiling when the older woman banged her forehead again, closed her eyes, and repeated, somewhat, what she had said on first encountering her, “To the hills! Pancho Villa is coming!”
Sylvia’s apartment became increasingly pretty. She bought flouncy drapes, a white sofa, and she filled the place with real-looking artificial flowers.
“I’m here for a visit—”
Sylvia had answered an insistent knock at the door. There stood Clarita. Startled, Sylvia invited her in, leaving the door open in case she was here for some brief message or other. But she stayed, sitting down comfortably on the one chair. “—and to tell you that are a very special person,” the older woman continued, as if she had received that message on highest authority—she had closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her temples for intense concentration. “Thank you,” Sylvia said, genuinely delighted.
There was such immediate closeness between them that Sylvia told the older woman about the debacle at the Miss Alamito Pageant; she was astonished and pleased to see that Clarita understood fully, presenting, as evidence of that fact, copious tears. “Oh, the sadness of it, the sadness,” she wept, sobs that Sylvia soothed.
“Woe! Scarlet woman! Woman of shame!” Eulah had shoved her way in. “Repent!” With her Bible, she rushed at Sylvia.
Clarita stepped in front of her, pushing her back. Eulah pushed back. The two women froze before each other, as if to test whose cold stare would vanquish whose.
“Stand aside, harborer of wanton women, whoever you are!” Eulah shouted at Clarita.
Out of the large bag she carried with her for such emergencies, Clarita brought out a dried palm leaf—“blessed by the priest,” she intoned—and lighting it with matches that were part of her magical arsenal, she waved it in front of Eulah Love—“to banish your emanations, ranting woman!”
Eulah coughed and battled the smoke with her hands.
“This demonio can’t stand the smell of holy palm!” Clarita said triumphantly.
“I am here to warn you, Sylvia Love, that I will drag you if necessary to the Gathering of Souls to be cleansed of your naked sin!” Eulah promised—and swept out, ranting and coughing.
“She’ll take you to those crazy protestantes over my dead body,” Clarita swore, deftly smothering the smoking palm between her cupped hands.
That increased Sylvia’s affection for the Mexican woman, who became a frequent visitor.
Before long, Clarita would come over on Sundays to make a “special Mexican meal” for Sylvia, who bought and paid for the ingredients. Clarita would then hold court, informing Sylvia about “mysterious matters” that only she was privy to, generalized prophecies (“the world will endure”), and more specific ones that didn’t hold up—she was always wrong about the weather. Often she made pronouncements that Sylvia did not understand. Perhaps that was so because Clarita might have been translating them from Spanish, although she was justifiably proud of her proficiency with the “foreign language,” having taken many courses to further herself. Still, she often mixed the two, adding to the mysterious quality of her pronouncements.
“Life,” she said with a sigh, “is a series of circles, never enclosed. Así es el mundo.”
3
Still back in time, Lyle Clemens the First enters, resurrecting smothered hope.
Sylvia Love sat in a booth at the Lone Star Café where she often stopped for breakfast before going to work. She stared morosely at a bunch of waxy artificial flowers on the table, realizing that the ones she had bought yesterday would eventually look like these, worn, tired. She heard words coming from the television screen behind her, near the cashier.
“—exactly how it felt when you heard your name called.”
“Egg-stat-tic! Of course, Ah couldn’t believe it. All the othuh girls were prettier, and Ah—”
No! It couldn’t be. Sylvia tried not to turn around to look. But she already had, she was already looking at the television screen, where—
An older woman, all bright teeth, her hair a blonde hornet’s nest, sat on a sofa as if she was in her own living room. Facing her, her back momentarily to the camera was—
“Miss Canutillo!” Sylvia screamed aloud.
“Of course, you’re too modest, Miss America,” the older woman on television said. “But, after all, the judges determine
d that you were the one to bear the crown and glory of Miss America!”
“Yes, and Ah thank Jeezus for that, just as Ah did that night,” Miss Canutillo said. Her lips were etched into a smile that might as easily be a grimace.
No question about it. That creature on the screen was the woman who had gone around telling everyone else they should win because they were prettier, the one who had shouted “Hallelujah” when she had stumbled on the lunatic’s sheet, the one who—
“—because you see, Barbara,” the drawly voice continued, “Ah know it wahn’t me—I—who won. It was the Lord workin’ through muh body.”
“He had a lot of curves to work with,” said Barbara.
CRASH!
The cashier ducked, people at the counter ducked.
Sylvia had sent a pepper shaker hurtling toward the screen, barely missing the television.
“Ah, hon, you don’t haveta do any such thing—”
Sylvia whirled about to tell whoever had dared interfere with her to leave her alone, get the hell away from her, go to—
My God! She faced the handsomest man she had ever seen. He was tall, wearing a tailored suit, polished cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat, which he removed and, bowing, swept before her in an arc. He had dark brown hair whose natural shine tempted the Texas sunlight. His eyes were—she’d assert this later—blue!
“—don’t haveta do any such thing,” the man had resumed, smiling, “—cause you’re so much prettier’n her. I bet you’da won if you’da been there. Hon, you’re about the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, ever.”
That was Lyle Clemens the First—of course, he wouldn’t become “the First” until “the Second” was born—and he was already coaxing her to sit back down with him as if it had been his booth all along and he was inviting her to join him. He made no attempt to hide the fact that he was eyeing her breasts, leaning to one side to get a better view. No, Sylvia thought, he wasn’t looking at her breasts, he was making love to them with his eyes.
“Now, Sylvia, hon,” the manager was there, a round red-faced man—his face redder now—I know the strain your odd mamma puts you through, but throwing a shaker at—”
“Sir,” Lyle Clemens the First said, “this beautiful young lady is just spirited, that’s all. This should cover any damage she may have created—and it doesn’t look like much, does it?” He shook the manager’s hand. The manager closed his own hand over the bill Lyle had put there.
“No damage, no,” he said.
“I know I’m prettier than that bitch,” Sylvia mused.
Lyle Clemens the First laughed at her easy acceptance of his compliment. He leaned closer. It was now as if he was breathing on her breasts, might be about to kiss them, right here, now! She must have been blushing, because she felt red.
4
The passion of Lyle Clemens the First and Sylvia Love.
This is lustful! That’s what Sylvia thought happily, savoring the word her mother often tossed at her during her recurring incursions.
Lyle Clemens the First confirmed all the warnings her mother had plagued her with. Lust consumed, it made you its captive, you had no time to think about matters of the Lord, it made sinfulness attractive—lustful, lustful, lustful!
All true!
Especially since, it seemed to Sylvia, Lyle Clemens was always aroused, always ready to do it—with his boots on.
He kept a pair of new boots—there was never a smudge on the bed—to be worn only when he was “ready.” He’d take off his “walkin’ boots,” then all his clothes, and then he’d put on the “love boots”—each time—explaining to Sylvia with the broadest smile ever that, “Ya cain’t be a cowboy without your boots, and a cowboy makes the best kinda love.” When he was through, he would remove them and replace them carefully in their box—TONY LAMA, the box proclaimed.
The way he made love! He would begin tenderly, nuzzling up to her, moistening her ear, then kissing her. His hands were everywhere on her body at once. And! He made love—made love!—to her breasts, hugging them at first with his large hands, his fingers cupping them, squeezing just slightly, and he would be talking to them, talking to her breasts! “You’re the prettiest damn things God ever made, I swear, look how y’all perk up and turn deep pink like you’re blushin’. I jest wonder—jest wonder—what would y’all taste like? Ummmm, ummm. Sweeter’n honey in a honeycomb.” He would kiss them with his mouth closed—kiss them loudly between “ummm-ummms”—many times, over and over, and then his lips would part, right on her nipples, and he would warm them with his mouth, and his tongue would dab, swirl about them, and he would be whispering, “You’re even more beautiful now, you gorgeous goddamn tits.”
He made his words sound like a song. “What is this? A pink rosebud? I think maybe I’ll open your petals, you pretty thing you. There, ah, yeah, sure, moist with dew, sweet thing, little dabs of honey. Ummmm, ummm—”
Right about then, he would begin speaking out what he was doing, would be doing. “Now I’m gonna touch this beautiful little sweetheart between her legs, touch you, sweet thing, with my fingers, I’m gonna part you just a little, like a flower. Dewy flower.” The rough words he sometimes uttered never sounded nasty, always only like love words: “Now I’m gonna fuck you, my pretty sweetheart, gonna put my big cock into your beautiful quiverin’ snatch, darlin’, darlin’ fuckin’ sweetyheart, loveya, love yah! Oh, shit, oh, fuck, oh, Jee-zuss Christ!”
When he was coming, it was as if that was all there was in the world, for him, and for her. Her body would match his every thrust. Just before he came, he’d shout, “I love ya, sweet heart,” and push all the way in at “sweet” and stay there pulsing inside her for an eternity. Eulah Love was right! Lust sure could rule your senses. But Eulah was wrong, wrong, wrong about her life being unhappy.
After sex, and having taken off his sex-boots, Lyle would instantly fall asleep with a smile on his face, his body naked, so naked that, at times, blushing and cherishing the warmth on her face, Sylvia would close her eyes, then open them to relish the spectacle, including the sight of his still somewhat aroused cock. The only other one she had ever seen was Armando’s, and either Armando’s was small—although he’d displayed it as if no one else had one—or Lyle’s was very large. She suspected that both conclusions were correct.
Once, when she was sure Lyle was asleep, she bent down and touched his cock with one finger. It jumped up. He woke with a wide smile—and off they went.
Sometimes, after they made love and he fell asleep, she would cover herself entirely with a sheet, telling herself she was cold. Once, Lyle woke and saw her doing that. Lazily, he attempted to lower the sheet, to make love to her breasts. She grasped it tightly. “What the hell?” Lyle said.
5
The courtship of Sylvia Love.
Of course she was in love.
Lyle was so good to her, never arrived without a present, earrings, a necklace, a gorgeous dress from Dallas, exactly her size. Always, he brought flowers. Sometimes he waited until after they had sex to present her with gifts. At first that bothered her, because it seemed he meant to reward her. But soon she dismissed that as yet another of his endearing quirks, like the boots.
And this: She woke one morning to the strains of a guitar—a guitar she’d never seen before, new, bought for this occasion only, she knew, and he sang notes, only notes really; and there he sat on the floor, naked, with his cowboy hat on, his long legs crossed before him and his boots on—just sat there like that, smiling and singing to her—words, only words, the same words, repeated—“love … sweet … beautiful Sylvia, my Sylvia … my sweet love.” Then they had sex—again!—and she knew that happiness would never end.
She mentioned aloud one day that she was worried that her friend Clarita had not been by, had walked past her at the grocery store, something she had managed to ignore because Clarita was given to intense moods, during which, she said, her visions came. But as the days passed without a word from her, she worried.
He lived in Dallas—but he could live anywhere, he had that kind of business—“cowboy business, prize horses”—he told Sylvia. He flew back and forth, driving a rented car—always new, always fancy, a different one each time—the few miles from the airport nearest Rio Escondido. He came and went—going away only on cowboy business.
6
A warning is adjusted.
“Beware of men with black hair and blue eyes,” Clarita told Sylvia sternly as she was leaving the department store and Clarita was going to work with the other custodian.
“Clarita! Where have you been? You’ve been avoiding me. Now come out of the shadows as if you don’t know me!”
Clarita had seen Sylvia with “the Cowboy,” the first time when she had been going to drop by for a visit. She had dashed away. Another time, she saw him leaving at an hour that signaled only one thing: Sylvia was having an affair. She pondered the matter deeply, over herbal tea. She had a signal of complications. A bird with a slash of red flew before her. Now she could tell Sylvia what she had withheld.
“Clarita, stop it, you’re acting stranger than usual standing in the shadows to talk to me.”
Clarita removed herself from the shadows. “I said, beware of a—”
“I heard you.” Sylvia was so relieved to see her that she didn’t walk away from the annoying warning. “Besides, Lyle’s hair isn’t black, it’s brown.”
