by John Rechy
“May I come in?”
“Oh, please.”
“May I sit down?”
“Of course!”
He cleared a chair. Still holding the flowers, he sat facing Normalyn on a stool. Awkwardness clamped immediately into a silence so aggressive that when Ted finally spoke, Normalyn jumped.
“I can’t wait to tell you,” Ted plunged. “Remember the statue we hated so much in the memorial plaza?”
The Texas Hero. “Yes.” Enid had hated it, too.
“A Fabens reporter did research on it, and the Unknown Texas Hero is a Mexican general!’ Ted roared.
Normalyn burst into laughter with him, tension released.
“The reporter—she used to be the librarian until Clarinda had her fired for allowing ‘dirty communist books’ in the Gibson library—”
Miss Stowe! Normalyn welcomed her back.
“—the reporter found out that Gibson once belonged to the Mexicans, and they put up the statue honoring General Buendía.” Ted went on. “The Anglos in Gibson were furious when they found out, but the Mexicans from the college came in to celebrate in the plaza with some of the workers. I danced with them!”
Normalyn imagined him dancing with the pretty Mexican girls. It looked right.
“The Mayor’s crazy wife wanted a committee to tear down the statue immediately. Remember how the Daughters of the Republic of Texas had their ceremonies there? But Mayor Hughes said”—Ted imitated the drawly voice—“‘What the hell, it’s the same damn statue, i’n’it?’ . . . He’s a son-of-a-bitch, but there’s something about him, a loyalty.”
“Yes,” Normalyn said. A deep loyalty.
“He sends his respects, and this—” Ted gave her an envelope, but he still held on to the flowers. “Papers to sell the house.”
The starlet’s room would be redone. Normalyn took the envelope. She did not want to open it yet.
Ted goaded her: “So much must have happened to you, I bet.”
“Too much to tell right now,” she avoided.
“Have you found what you came for?” he phrased carefully.
“Almost,” she said. She thought of David Lange, of the promise of answers within the office of twilight.
Refusing to allow the threatening silence, Ted told her about the group of Los Angeles lawyers he was working with. “I’d be honored to have you meet my friends,” he invited.
The Texas gentleman still. He had inherited all the exaggerated manners of the Texans he detested, Normalyn thought.
Troja coughed, announcing her entrance.
Ted stared in obvious admiration. Assuming his Texas cordiality, he stood quickly, bowed slightly. Normalyn introduced them.
The weariness etched on Troja’s face was released for moments by the admiring reaction. Normalyn welcomed that. But had she felt a pang of jealousy? No!
“Aren’t those for Normalyn?” Troja reminded casually as Ted stood with the flowers still clutched in both large hands.
Ted looked down in embarrassment. Recovering, he presented them to Normalyn. Troja offered her “the pretty vase” in her room.
Normalyn set the vase with the flowers on the counter. She served a delicious roast chicken she had cooked. Even Troja ate as if she were savoring it. They talked cursorily but easily. After dinner, coffee, Troja excused herself, clearly to allow them to be alone. Normalyn told Ted that Troja was her very best friend. “And a great performer.” She raised her voice for Troja to hear that.
Before they would have to battle silence again, Ted told Normalyn, “I’ve missed you a lot.” He leaned over cautiously. When she didn’t pull back, he held her hand. She welcomed the warm sensation.
As she walked him to his new—borrowed—Jeep, he told her, proudly, that he had applied for law school in California. “I’m going to be here about a week this time, and then I’ll go back briefly and come back. So I’ll be here a lot,” he told her happily. He lowered his head; he said softly, “I’m serious about you, Normalyn. I keep thinking about you.”
I’m serious— . . . Normalyn was aware of a wondrous, baffling, fearful feeling. But she did not agree to see him tomorrow—he would call first.
When he drove away in his Jeep, Normalyn was sure she had seen an entirely new person. The “other Ted”—always to be hated—had been left behind in Gibson.
Forty-Seven
In her room, Normalyn opened the envelope from Mayor Hughes. Along with legal papers, there was a short letter. She heard his drawling voice pronounce the written words:
Dear, dear Normalyn, here are some papers for your signature—if this is what you wish. I’ve entrusted them to one of the “new breed.” Remember, sweetheart, our lunch at the grand old Texas Grand Hotel?—presided over by dearest Enid, may she rest. Remember her kindly, always, as I hope you remember me. I pray you will find all you need to find so you can be free. My love to you, sweetheart. Wendell.
All you need to find so you can be free. . . . Normalyn thought she detected Enid’s voice in those words.
2
Ted called, as agreed. She told him she was busy; “an appointment” was all she could think of as excuse. She felt too moody to see him, disturbed by questions about Mayor Hughes—if he did know more, why had he refused to tell her?—questions about David Lange, questions about everyone, everything! And she was disturbed by Ted’s presence.
Troja had left early for a recording studio; another day’s work as a backup singer. Normalyn checked to see that the needle, the powder were where she had hidden them. Now she passed the telephone. She paused.
In the days since she had seen David Lange—only two days had passed, an eternity—she kept finding new reasons for not calling him. Not yet. She must not seem eager to accept his proposal, his—or whoever else’s—conditions for access to truth. There were other people she might locate. Beyond all that, she had resolved that when she faced him again, she must be strong and confident, and she—
A knock at the door. Ted?
Michael Farrell!
She was glad to see him. Each time, although only a few days intervened, he looked handsomer, more mature.
He said quickly, “The other night you told me you didn’t want to see me—but you said that after you said you did want to. I think you always say first what you really want. We’re on our way back to school. I just stopped to give you this.” He handed her a small package.
“Thank you,” she managed to say, startled.
He walked away as if the boldness had expired. In the car, his friends waved at her. She waved back, watching the car move away from her, regretting that . . . and watched it turn around. Return. Park!
Michael got out again. He walked up to her. “Normalyn,” he said, “you’ve got to face that it doesn’t have to be ugly, being close—that you don’t have to be afraid. But only you can do it, and only if you want to.” He waited.
She did not answer. She stood at the door until he had driven away. Then she opened the package he had brought her. A book. Poems by Emily Brontë. There was a marker indicating one page in the slim volume. She read the poem.
No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere;
I see Heaven’s glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
3
Even as her life now gave hints—which she evaluated and exulted in several times a day but which could fade so quickly— even as her life gave hints of shaping, beginning to shape, even then she felt, in moments that came unexpectedly, like a pursuing presence, the powerful pull of the mystery of her past. Then the memory of David Lange would invade with all his mystery, his promised answer. She would hear his words of exhortation, even the sound of them—soft inflections, whispered commands. . . . More and more, she was coming to believe that to resolve the mystery entirely, she had to discover the exact purpose of the dual letter Enid had left her.
These considerations would almost fade, never en
tirely and only sometimes like now, when she had finally decided to go with Ted to meet his friends, the people he worked with.
Buildings floated in a watery sky as they moved onto the freeway in Ted’s borrowed Jeep. Laughing, he was telling her that he’d discovered he wasn’t even half-Anglo: “All these years, my mother’s been hiding that she’s half-Mexican—it’s why she and my dad had problems. Now that’s helped me clear my head even more—like about that I couldn’t make it with—I mean, relate to—Mexican girls. Well, when we danced around the statue of General Buendía, there was one, real pretty, and—” He stopped quickly. “All I’m saying is that your being Anglo doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that”—he inhaled—“that I really love you, Normalyn.”
Those curious words, so ordinary, really, and yet she felt a clutching in her heart, as if it had held its breath. To be seen as herself and to be loved!
He veered off at Boyle Heights, into a section of Los Angeles known as “East L.A.” Almost everyone here is Mexican; some occupy handsome homes in purified hills. Many more live in small stucco houses, others in torn apartment buildings or blocked units, disguised by flowers all about, every color.
Ted parked the Jeep in back of a small, square building. On one side of it was a giant mural of resplendent Aztec princes in ceremonial plumage. In the background, pale friars and Spanish conquistadores waited to invade.
Normalyn and Ted entered a busy clutter of desks, chairs, typewriters. There were about ten men and women, who greeted Ted warmly. He called back in camaraderie. Black and red strike placards decorated the walls.
A youngwoman looked up from behind her desk. She was a very pretty Mexican girl with huge brown eyes, luscious black hair, silky brown skin, a firm, sexy body. Ted introduced Normalyn to the others. Normalyn maneuvered toward the youngwoman.
“You’re Normalyn,” the youngwoman said. She had a lovely smile. “I’m Gloria Martinez.”
Ted had talked about her to this girl. Normalyn extended her hand.
Gloria took it warmly. “Ted told me you’re pretty,” she said, “but you’re beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” Normalyn shifted away from those words.
“This is our director.” Ted pulled at a tall, sturdy Mexican man with a giant moustache. He bowed courteously to Normalyn. Then he told Ted about recent developments enhancing their chances of bringing a suit in Texas against growers. Normalyn saw Ted’s excitement; he slapped his hands happily. Gloria offered her own views. Ted listened attentively, agreeing, laughing happily, turning serious.
Normalyn wandered to a small cubicle she was sure was Ted’s: a desk, a chair, two blowups, one of John F. Kennedy, the other of Robert Kennedy. She turned away from the disturbing presences.
Ted saw her do that. “You hear so much now about how they might have been in their private lives,” Ted phrased carefully. “But what they represent remains good,” he said staunchly. “It has to.”
Normalyn thought of the beautiful, hurt movie star, dazzled by their power, not able to grasp her own. At one time, Ted had seen her, Normalyn, as a symbol to be conquered. Had his heroes seen Marilyn Monroe only as a symbol, too?
One of the men called to Ted. Normalyn moved back to Gloria Martinez.
“He loves you very much,” Gloria said to her.
Normalyn did not answer, because she was sure that Gloria was herself at least beginning to love Ted.
“You’re lucky,” Gloria said, adding quickly, “and, of course, so is he. He’s an exceptional man.” She laughed. “Even here, some of the older men can be so damn condescending to the women. But not Ted. He’s entirely free of all that.” She blushed, aware of her words. “The reason I’m saying this to you is that I’m sure you helped to make him the fine man he is.” She smiled. “Although he can still look like a boy.”
4
Very early the next day, Normalyn drove out of the city with Ted. They traveled for miles, and then off the freeway. Ahead were green, fertile fields. Ted stopped the Jeep. She got out with him. He pointed to Mexican men and women—and some children—stooped over, gathering rich crops. Beyond, desolate shacks spotted green land. “Conditions you wouldn’t believe possible today, and we have a chance to change it.” He snapped his fingers happily, eagerly.
We. He looked so proud in his affiliation. He intertwined his fingers through hers. A soft warm breeze glided across the fields. Ted held Normalyn’s hair against her face, to look at her, closely, clearly, at the beautiful youngwoman she had fully become. Slowly, he held her closer. He kissed her, just barely pressing her lips.
Normalyn thought with sudden, frantic urgency, This is the only way to expel the terror, to conquer it with him. His rage was gone, and he had thwarted the violence even then. With the same man, she would conquer those ugly beginnings.
5
A few minutes later, in a motel they agreed on in a small city just beyond the fields, Ted touched Normalyn’s shoulders, tenderly. His hands moved softly over the opening of her blouse, and down, along her skirt.
Normalyn froze.
His touch became even gentler.
She tried to release her fear.
He kissed her, and—
Violent darkness swept into the room! She was enveloped in it. She saw hands tearing at her clothes, heard a windstorm howling, and—
She pulled away from his touch. She pummeled him fiercely with clenched fists. “Goddamn you!” she screamed. “You tried to rape me, and now I’m too scared to let anyone close!” With fury gathered for years, she lashed at him again and again—until he held her hands tightly, kissing them urgently.
“Normalyn, Normalyn! It’s me!” he pleaded.
“I know, and it always will be!” she yelled at him. “And I’ll never forgive what you tried to do to me—even if you stopped it!” She leaned back, against a wall, and she turned her head and cried.
6
The scent of evening flowers saturated the city as Ted drove Normalyn home. He parked. “Something as ugly as what happened that afternoon never goes away, and I can’t ever forget it either,” he said, facing it.
“But you can with someone else.” Normalyn was thinking of him and Gloria, who would see only the man he was now. But when she heard her own words, she wondered whether they contained a meaning for her, too.
“I hurt you and I hurt myself because I’ve lost you,” “Ted said. “Please, please believe that I am truly sorry, with all my heart, for what I did to you.” He looked down at the scar on his hand, and rubbed it quickly as if to erase it.
Normalyn touched it. She saw tears in his eyes. “I do believe you,” she said.
That night—sad but at peace—Normalyn read the Emily Brontë poems Michael had given her. Then, on the blank pages, she began to write a story, or a book, whatever it might become:
In spring, when she was eighteen years old and living in Texas, Jeane Morgan discovered that she did not know who she was. It wasn’t that she didn’t know who her parents were—she did. It was that without knowing it, she had become afraid of life. There were reasons.
7
In the morning she found Troja at the breakfast counter. Normalyn was immediately aware of tension.
“Couldn’t sleep. Dreamt, tossed all night,” Troja said. “Where’s that fuckin’ shit you took from me?” she demanded.
“You don’t want it,” Normalyn said firmly.
“Who the hell you think you are to tell me what I want?”
Normalyn felt anger about to crack. She closed her eyes. “I threw it away.”
Troja stood up. “Fuck if you did. You hid it! I want that shit back, girl!”
Anger snapped. “You listen!” Normalyn shouted.
Troja’s head snapped back.
“I came back when you went looking for me—because you’re my friend and I love you and you’re in pain. But you’re taking advantage of that again. You still think I don’t feel!”
“Just give me the goddamned shi
t!”
Normalyn went into her room, located the syringe, the powder. She had to do this. She set both on the floor near her own door. “Troja!” she yelled. “You said there’s a point when if someone wants to destroy themselves, you can’t stop them. So I’m putting your precious ‘shit’ right here on the floor where you’ll have to stoop even lower to get it. And when you’re doing that, remember this: That’s exactly what Kirk tried—with his life!—to keep from happening to you!”
She waited tensely for Troja to move. If she did, would she try to stop her? She had to gamble. If she relented now, her desperate words would lose their power, their possible power. Normalyn remained leaning against the door.
“Please break the goddamn needle; throw the damn shit away!” Troja said without turning.
In the bathroom, Normalyn opened the packet. The powder glistened beautifully! She flushed it into the toilet. She crushed the hypodermic needle against the trash can. It made the frailest sound!
“The goddamned dying’s got to end,” Troja said.
Yes! Normalyn felt stronger than ever. She had challenged Troja to live—and she had won! And yesterday with Ted she had purged rage! She was strong enough to confront David Lange—and whomever he would lead her to—and whatever would be revealed! Because she was dying every moment she did not live her life. The goddamned dying’s got to end!
Forty-Eight
This time it was David Lange who called her. “It’s imperative that I see you today in my office. There will be someone else who is eager to speak to you.”
She would agree—she was ready to see him—but she had immediately to clear the field of encounter: “How did you get this telephone number?”
“From Mildred—from your address when her chauffeur drove you home,” David did not hesitate to answer, signaling that connections would now be unmasked, there would be no more subterfuge. All would be revealed, including his own participation—Normalyn was certain of that at this moment, and suspected that his “confession” might be the most chilling of all.
