by John Rechy
She met Raynaldo at La Casa Bonita, a combination bar and restaurant, perfectly respectable; in the tradition of Mexican restaurants, it had a “family entrance” into a section apart from the bar. She had started stopping there on Fridays for a beer, sometimes two, to relax her after work. On Saturday nights she might return, have another beer, two, never more, and none, ever, on weeknights—except one now and then with dinner on special occasions.
She had seen Raynaldo there before, noticed him looking at her, but she was not interested in him. He was not the handsome man she was attracted to. He was perhaps ten years older than she. He wasn’t fat, no, but he was a large man, certainly sturdy. He did have a full head of wavy hair, which was graying.
One night he spoke to her, and she allowed the conversation, and then again on another night, and then she met him there one Saturday for a good dinner. He appreciated her, called her “beautiful,” was kind, made apt jokes that everyone in the restaurant laughed at. So Amalia allowed the courtship, something different.
She visited his rented room, uncommonly neat for that of a man, especially a single man. He kissed her, just that.
It was only after several “dates”—he called them that—that he asked her if he could make love to her. They went to his room, and she let him. Oh, she didn’t enjoy it, what was there to enjoy? He was urgent, clumsy. Afterward, he held her closely to him as if he were protecting her with his whole body. The next time she saw him, he readily admitted—but with embarrassment, which touched her—that he was married but permanently separated from a woman in Denver. A divorce, which both wanted, was pending. When that was final, soon, he wanted to marry “a good woman.” “And if she’s beautiful,” he told her with a smile, “so much the better.”
Sometimes, in his awkward urgency, he would hurt her during his lovemaking, but never deliberately—as she had always suspected the others had, at least at times. When she winced at his pawing and pressing, he would apologize quickly. And he never stopped holding her protectively, afterward.
Amalia decided: He would be a good father to her children; he loved her; and he was a kind, generous man with a steady job.
She arranged to introduce him to her family at dinner. She made fat chiles rellenos, which she knew he loved, and a rice casserole with pieces of chicken; puffy sopapillas sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar for dessert; an extravagant meal that he kept complimenting enthusiastically at almost every bite.
Manny did not look at him. During dinner he had entertained his brother and sister by making funny faces at them. Then, silent, he kept his eyes fixed on the table, and Juan and Gloria followed his lead, giggling.
When Amalia saw Raynaldo studying her family, she was proud. Two good-looking sons and a pretty daughter, and—the Holy Mother would not deny her this small vanity—she herself did not look unattractive in a creamy dress that hugged the ovals of her breasts.
Raynaldo cleared his throat. Amalia had rehearsed with him the words he was to speak. He said to the children: “I want to be a father to you.”
Manny smiled and Amalia felt relieved. He said: “No, you just want to fuck her, you want to fuck our mother.”
Juan laughed, Gloria looked puzzled.
“Mijo …” Amalia heard the pleading in her voice.
Manny pushed his plate off the table, and it shattered.
That night he did not come home, nor the next night. Amalia was despondent, asking everyone in the neighborhood if they knew where he was. He returned, early one morning, when she was in the kitchen, unable to sleep.
“Where have you been?” Her love rushed to her son, but her voice was cold—from worry that was now anger.
He sat down with her at the table. “’Ama,” he said, “when I was gone, I slept in an alley, near a trash bin so no one could find me. A baby woke me up with his crying. Someone had abandoned him in the garbage.”
Amalia clenched her hands, warming them. “You’re lying. That’s an ugly story. What mother would ever abandon her child to the garbage?”
“It’s true,” he insisted, in a soft, almost whispering voice. “There was a baby in the garbage, abandoned, crying.”
“You’re lying.”
“And when I was away,” his voice was lifeless now, “I fucked a girl, ‘Amá, in an abandoned house.”
“Manny!” She would have been angrier with him for using that word except that he was speaking even more softly.
“I’m not lying, ‘Amá I met her in one of those places where girls and guys go with hair dyed different colors. And, ‘Amá, her breasts were real small.” He held out one hand, vaguely.
The hand with the white scar. Amalia stood up angrily. “You’re on drugs. If you’re ever like this again, I don’t want to see you!”
His eyes closed. He fell asleep on the table.
When Amalia came home from work, she found him sitting on the floor with Juan and Gloria. Gloria was inspecting the burn on his hand, as if trying to smooth it with her fingers. Amalia paused, tensely, watching them. Juan was the first to become aware of her. He looked up at her. Angry? Puzzled? Then Gloria left the room and Juan followed her.
“What did you tell them, Manny?”
He shook his head.
The next day—and for days following—Manny was changed, her Manny again, the son she had raised. “I’m going to be good now, ‘Amita, I promise.” He was even friendly to Raynaldo when he returned for more visits.
Amalia rushed in breathless with excitement on a Saturday afternoon. Manny was sitting on the floor teaching Gloria and Juan a card game.
“Raynaldo and I went to the courthouse and got married!” she announced to her children.
She was relieved that Manny said nothing and that Juan and Gloria seemed to accept it as if it had little to do with them.
It was a lie. She and Raynaldo had not been married, but claiming that would allow Raynaldo to move in that night. She had considered, but rejected, saying they had been married in church—she would adjust that later. She had coaxed Raynaldo to bring over a cake to celebrate that evening.
She avoided the children until then. Manny went out, but that was no different from other times.
Raynaldo came over with a colorful cake decorated in red, blue, green, yellow. He also brought a bottle of sparkling wine! Manny returned, and Amalia hugged him in gratitude.
They all gathered about the cake. Amalia almost convinced herself that what she had told her children was true—and it would be, as soon as Raynaldo’s divorce was final.
She marveled at how happy Juan and Gloria looked, devouring the cake. They were happy because now they had a father at last, Amalia knew. Tensely, she passed a slice of the cake to Manny. He took it.
Perhaps the inevitable course of her life might contain some peace, Amalia thought when Manny ate the cake and looked up at her smiling and she saw again the purified part of Salvador.
4
IN HER STUCCO UNIT in Hollywood, Amalia remembered Manny’s smiling face when they had celebrated her “marriage” to Raynaldo. Who would have thought that only a short time after that day, she would sit in a courtroom and hear that very same boy—her beloved son—called a murderer!
Now, the hot stillness of this day that had begun with the impression of a silver cross in the sky—no more about that!—persisted. Still early morning, and the day was growing hotter. Would there be one of those dreaded Sant’ Anas today?
Amalia had remained for more seconds quietly watching Gloria on her pullout bed and in her slip, and Juan in his shorts and on his cot—sitting there without any embarrassment, still talking in the living room that turned into their bedroom. Had they lowered their voices when they detected her presence? Why didn’t they run to her, hug her, wish her a good morning, as they once had?
“Gloria! Juan!” She called out to them because she felt suddenly angry, suddenly alone.
Her two children turned quickly to face her.
Oh, how beautiful they are, Amalia th
ought, as she did often. Strange that so many people do not realize how beautiful Mexicans are. They just don’t see us, Amalia knew. Look at Juan—every sinew on his body showed, that’s how lean and strong he was, and not quite eighteen. He combed his black hair back, only a strand over his yellowish eyes now, eyes surprising with his brown complexion. He was not tall, no, but he wasn’t short, and he was so … mature, masculine. And why shouldn’t she think that of him? He was her son…. But the tinge of shame had come from the memory of Angel, last night, and that extra beer…. She turned hurriedly to bask in her daughter’s fresh prettiness. Without makeup, Gloria’s face was flushed with its own coloring. She had hazel eyes, and her skin was as smooth as tan silk. She would inherit her mother’s breasts, Amalia knew proudly. She already had a way of tossing her head to display her dark hair, the way she, Amalia, did when she was being … well… a woman. But Gloria was a girl, only fifteen.
“Hi, Mom,” Gloria said easily.
Mom! Amalia hated that word. It made her feel fat and vulgar and ugly, like some of the women she worked for. Why couldn’t Gloria call her “‘Ama,” the way Juan now often did? Sometimes he even called her “‘Amita”—and when he did, she would quickly evoke her dead son, as if to assure him that the cherished designation still belonged to him.
“‘Amá—” Juan said the word cautiously now, as if to please both her and Gloria.
Why did he feel he had to borrow his sister’s new defiance? About what? When they began to dress, Amalia moved into the kitchen—more aging furniture, more barred windows. A picture of the Blessed Mother remained shiny because it was periodically replaced, most often from religious calendars. Here, too, were the graying paper and cloth flowers with which she had gradually tried to overwhelm the house.
It had seemed prettier when she first moved in, when Raynaldo made it possible to leave East Los Angeles. Yes, and everything had seemed so right that night they had celebrated her “marriage” to him.
That night, after the cake celebration, and for a time after, she muffled the sounds of Raynaldo’s lovemaking by hanging blankets on the door of the bedroom—that’s how sensitive she was to her children—so they would accept him as the father she knew he wanted to be.
And for a time they did accept him as that—Gloria and Juan did. It had been difficult to tell with Manny because soon after he was in trouble again.
Juvenile home, county detention camp, youth authority, detention center, youth training school…. Amalia could not keep the names straight. Manny was in and out of them. She was no longer sure which one it was, even when she rode by bus to visit him. He was there for fighting, then for stealing. Even the exact charges, Amalia could not remember.
More and more she prayed, not for anything, exactly, but just to express her faith. She went to confession and confessed the usual things, anger, impatience. And, more and more, she prayed to the Holy Mother, feeling that God had created the Blessed Lady—in part only, of course—to “soften” His most mysterious and difficult ways.
Manny was “away” again—that’s how she referred to his absences. To lift her spirits, Raynaldo had begun taking her on Sunday drives in his old but pampered Ford, which he took regularly to be washed and sprayed with hot wax.
“What a beautiful neighborhood!” Amalia said as the shined car drove into Hancock Park. Unlike those in Beverly Hills, the marvelous houses here were not hidden behind walls and tall trees. There was one proud old mansion after another for anyone to admire.
“I know you like rich houses,” Raynaldo explained his choice.
Trees arched their branches over the wide streets, creating a green, leafy tunnel. It seemed that only houses and those trees claimed the area—no one was out.
“That one!” Amalia said aloud, pointing to the most beautiful house. She had been playing a game with herself, that she could choose any house she wanted. She had chosen one with marbled steps that swept toward two stories, colored panes of glass—
A gunshot!
Raynaldo dodged, Amalia crouched.
“I’ve had a blowout,” Raynaldo lamented.
The loose rattling of the ripped tire confirmed that. He drove to the curb of one of the great houses. He and Amalia got out. No one stirred to acknowledge their sudden crisis except a black maid, who peered out.
It was then that Amalia realized the origin of her earlier game. Once Manny had consoled her, after returning from a detention home: “‘Amá, I promise you I’m going to be good, I’m going to be rich, and then I’ll buy you the most beautiful house in the world. All you have to say is, ‘That one!’ and I’ll buy it for you.”
On another Sunday, Amalia saw something that disturbed her for days. They had driven to the Griffith Park Observatory, where she had thrilled to the make-believe sky. Now Raynaldo said he wanted to take her to a place one of the men he worked with had told him about, in West Los Angeles, a dance-bar where they played the romantic ballads she loved. He finally found the place, only to discover that it had been converted into a brawly cowboy club. Women with giant blonde hairdos and western shirts stared at Amalia in her velvet dress. She stared back at them.
Raynaldo drove home on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was night. Along shabby blocks, Amalia saw young men in their late teens, some perhaps younger, others in their early twenties, difficult to tell. They stood idly, alone or in small groups. Many were shirtless. They kept eyeing cars that drove by slowly and stopped on side streets. She saw one shirtless young man walk up to a car, talk briefly before the open window, then get in. The car drove away.
“They’re boys looking for men who pay them,” Raynaldo said knowledgeably.
Prostitutes—those boys? Amalia was confused and angered. She had never understood how one man could desire another. A man’s thing belonged between a woman’s legs. That’s why God had made them the way He had. It baffled her even more that those boys had not looked like maricones, the effeminate men anyone could tell were—
A screech! Brakes! Shouts!
A carload of burly young men with clubs and bottles jumped out of a car and attacked a cluster of idling younger men. Just as suddenly as they had appeared, the attackers fled, laughing, leaving two boys bleeding on the sidewalk.
“Qué horrorr Amalia screamed.
Now, often, she talked about moving away from East Los Angeles. She saw more and more of the gangs, more of their graffiti everywhere. She paused once before one wall across which was scrawled in red, bleeding paint:
AZTLÁN ES UNA FÁBULA.
Aztlàn? A fable? Where had she heard that name? Oh, an old man before a mural had told her—She could not remember, but the scrawled words continued to haunt her.
She learned increasingly about gang fights, violence, raids on the homes of rival members. Manny would be out soon. She knew how difficult it was to leave a gang, an even more brutal initiation than the pummeling required to join.
“I’ll find a house somewhere else, preciosa,” Raynaldo promised.
He had just been given a raise. Now his job required him to work overnight at times, unpacking goods for a chain of groceries in and outside the city. Amalia would have grown suspicious about that with any other man, but she trusted him, believed him immediately when he informed her that his divorce was taking longer because some complications with his wife had occurred, not serious. Amalia was surprised at how much she missed his burly arms about her the mornings he was gone.
Except for the fact that Manny was still “away,” things were much better than before. She could afford meat now and then, to make her special picadillo, and decent cheese for her favorite entomatadas, and chicken, which Gloria and Juan loved fried.
On her way from school with another girl, Gloria was walking past a small triangular park bordered by bushes with giant white blossoms when a car sped by and a gun fired out of its window at a teenage boy. He thrust himself on the ground, and the bullet grazed away from the pavement where the two girls had flung themselves. A gang shoot
ing… For days, Gloria refused to go to school. When Juan volunteered to escort her, she insisted they walk several blocks out of the way to avoid the deadly park. Soon after, a boy was stabbed in a school corridor. A gang ambush.
Sometimes distant, like echoes or omens, now there were more gunshots heard in the neighborhood. “Las gangas” older people said, and soon began to add: “La jura,” because as police cars increased, so did the sound of bullets. In other cramped neighborhoods, too, in communities with beautiful names—Pomona, Florence, Echo Park—violence swept in, intended victims and bystanders felled by gang bullets, cop bullets. There was talk of barricading certain areas “to contain the violence, seal off drug zones.”
Like living in jail, Amalia thought. And soon Manny would return to this.
She came home from work to hear an old man who lived nearby bragging to a cluster of boys, children, that in his day “las gangas” had real “huevos”—balls, real courage. “We used to face the other vatos, bring them down with chingazos.” His wrinkled face brightened at the memory of the blows he had inflicted. “Sure we had to use weapons sometimes, I ain’t saying we didn’t, but only now and then and always one-on-one. Nowadays the vatos drive by in their cars, shoot, run away, get their courage from drogas, not huevos. That’s not the real man’s way. If you got class, you don’t shoot no babies, no women, you don’t run away.” His voice gained authority. “And we dressed, manos—pegged pants, classy hats, pocket chains.” He shook his palm, low, from the wrist, a wordless gang expression of grandness. “Everyone knew who we were.”
Amalia rejected the memory of Salvador—he had said something like that.
“When we were real chingones, the toughest, that’s when we made the gringo cops recognize us.” The old man studied the boys listening intently. “That’s one thing ain’t changed, the only time they see us.”
