by John Rechy
Amalia noticed three Oriental men with cameras eyeing her. Because … Well, obviously because she looked good among so many ordinary women, no matter how well dressed they were; why else? If the men had asked, she might have considered posing for a picture. As she walked on, she wished she had one of those pink flowers to put in her hair. A group of girls breezed by, so pretty, so sweet, so unworried. She heard a burst of giggling when they passed her. So free of cares! Oh, she wished Gloria had been one of them; but in that same moment, she saw again—a sharp intrusion in her mind now—the knife her daughter had dropped.
She walked on hurriedly. Within a huge circular plastic column, an elevator rose, people seemed suspended within it. Amalia stared up, at the arched ceiling of the mall. It had a translucent brightness like that of an eternally perfect day. Over the railings on upper floors, shoppers peered down onto the spill of shops. For a moment, she felt dizzy, dazed. Then she saw a sturdy middle-aged man looking at her. Of course—here among all these skinny women a lush woman would naturally stand out. She walked past the man, to indulge the warmth of his admiration; and why shouldn’t she? But he quickly turned away.
She sat on one of the comfortable benches. She imagined she had come here to shop, was exhausted from all she had purchased, would soon resume her buying—
If I can dredge up the energy!
—and she would have everything delivered. … What would Rosario say about this place?…
Think, Amalia!
Why did she remember that?—what Rosario had exhorted her to do, that day at the sewing factory when the older woman had been so troubled. Think about what? She thought of Milagros in the building that an earthquake might shrug off indifferently. What an odd thought. Why that now?… But Rosario had said more, in her urgent call today …
Quickly, Amalia went to the window of another dress shop. Finally, a dress pretty enough for her! She could duplicate it. She studied it closely. Why, she might even have sewn a part of it at the sewing factory! Of course, for her, she’d make it puffier, give it a ruffle, lower the bosom, who wouldn’t? In rehearsal, she adjusted the top of her own dress.
After this interlude what?
LLADRO JEWELERS … BELGRACIA … MIGNON
Controlling her breath—why was she becoming breathless?—she walked to a large tree in one of the cultivated enclosures. She was sure this one would be artificial, its leaves were much too glossy to be real.
I have to decide—
She touched the leaves of the tree. They were real, and not a single one was browning. What care they took with these trees in this clean, marvelous place!
CONTEMPO … ATMOSPHERE … THE LIMITED
Find your own strength. Why were Rosario’s words still disturbing her? No, not those, others. You don’t accept that you must—
She hurried to a jewelry store. She was admiring a display of wedding rings when she noticed that there was a guard there. He had a gun in a holster by his side. Even idle, that prop of violence chilled her, and she moved away from it and from his stare, to a shop that contained only crystal—think of it, only crystal!—graceful forms that transformed every speck of light into a buried jewel. With new, beautiful silk flowers, that vase would—A well-dressed woman was studying her. Well, certainly because—
Because I look out of place. That’s why that boy and those men looked at me, why those girls laughed, why that guard stared. She looked down at her dress. It was wrinkled, sweaty. The oily smear had become an ugly dark stain…. Suddenly she felt so exhausted she leaned against a window—and pulled away instantly, afraid she might dirty it. Her body ached. From the intense moments in the church before the Holy Mother when she had—She must not remember that! Hurriedly she smoothed her dress, brushed her fingers through the dark fullness of her hair.
She stood in the middle of the mall, aware of herself in this glistening palace. So many people … Did they see her? Yes, they saw a woman who looked out of place, tired, perspiring. But did they see her? She felt invisible—Rosario had used that word—as if her life had been lived unseen and in silence filled with unheard cries. She let her head rest against a wall. I have to think. She realized, only when her blurred vision opened onto smears of bright colors, that for a moment she had shut her eyes.
After this interlude what?
She breathed deeply, deeply, to gather some energy so she could walk on. I have to fight this weariness—to face—to cope with—What? Tomorrow, and the next day … if I can find the strength to move! At that same moment, she felt the paralyzing fatigue she recognized so well, which came with fear and then surrender. Why now, when there was no discernible threat—just these strange thoughts? If I can push this tiredness away, thrust away this—But a feeling of defeat was invading her.
Overcome by exhaustion, she sat down on one of the smaller benches scattered about the mall. Could she ever move again? She had to. Would she ever again be able to make more than the outline of movements? She must because—Manny is dead, Gloria and juan are alive, and they’ve been suffering also, through the death of their brother and so much more, but I haven’t seen that, haven’t even seen them at times, nor that they’ve been suffering for me, too, because they do love me, and that’s why they defended me, and they need me, because without my help they can’t survive, I have to teach them how to survive—if I can find how to myself—
If I can find the strength.
Blessed Mother, give me the necessary strength. Did she speak that or only think it? She knew she hadn’t really prayed it; it was just the faintest lingering echo, all that was left of her impossible demand in the church. She knew that because even as she had thought it or whispered it, she had felt her body lean sideways on the bench, and her weariness grew. She would just close her eyes—they were already closed—just recline on this bench—
Decide…
She pushed herself awake, forcing her eyes to stay open. She tried to sit up, but she couldn’t. She propped her hands on the bench and she made herself stand. She walked back to the escalator. Near the landing, huddled against a corner wall painted red and purple, an old woman slept on rags.
Amalia realized now that she had taken the escalator to the ground level—because she was standing, just standing on the street, near where a fleet of taxis waited for shoppers. Among them a man straddled a motorcycle. His face was concealed by a dark helmet. Amalia turned back to the ascending steps. Go up again?—just float? Or she might go home. Or she might—
She heard aroused voices, loud running footsteps, a sharp cracking sound, then a scream, another! Suddenly people pushed back against the railings of the escalators, against walls. Then everything was in jagged motion, a whorl of faces and bodies and colors.
An earthquake!
Amalia wondered where to move and could not. Now there would be the angered growl of the earth, the huge mall would collapse, and screaming people would—
But the ground under her was not moving. It was some other violence that was occurring. Had she heard a gunshot?
Hands grabbed her. A man was pulling her against him. His arm locked under her neck. He pressed a gun against her temple. He pushed her with him toward the curb, toward the motorcycle, its engine suddenly roaring.
“Put your gun down, I’ll shoot her!” Those words exploded in Amalia’s ear. The man holding her had shouted them up at an armed guard who had appeared at the top of the escalator. In a rush of awareness, Amalia knew that this man with crazed eyes—she saw them now or remembered them—had robbed a store, perhaps killed someone, and he might kill her, but if she did not move, did not breathe, did not protest—
At the top of the escalator, the guard lowered his gun to his side. “Stay back!” he yelled at horrified faces, excited faces, startled faces.
Everyone pulled back, and then there was a sudden clearing within which Amalia stood alone with the man holding a gun to her head. She was aware of moisture on her face, her arms, her chest. His perspiration? Hers? She thought she h
eard or felt the beating of the mans heart. Her own? No, it was not hers because her body had been clamped by fear, frozen.
Police sirens erupted. Squad cars halted with a shriek. The man waiting on the motorcycle started to flee, the machine spun, he fell. A policeman held a gun over him. Two other uniformed men crouched by the side of their black car.
“Put your fucking guns down!” the man holding her ordered. “I’ll shoot her, I swear it!”
Amalia felt the cold iron pressed harder against her head. Within a strange, long, loud silence, she heard a tiny click at her ear and she knew that a bullet had slid into position to kill her. She would succumb, yes, finally, to the weariness of this long, terrible day that contained the weight of her whole life, she would surrender—
“No mover she screamed.
And she thrust the man away from her with ferocious strength and she flung her body on the concrete.
The man fell back against the escalator. The gun he had held against Amalia’s head recoiled. A bullet ripped out of its chamber, and then there was another shot, this one from behind the black cars. Blood exploded from the man’s chest. Another shot hurled out of his gun, and Amalia saw a beautiful spatter of blue shards that glinted and gleamed like shooting stars as they fell on splotches of red like huge blossoms, red roses. For a second she stared in wonder.
The wounded man dropped a bag he had been clutching, and he crumpled on the stairs moving up. Then his body slid back down onto the sidewalk. He staggered two steps and collapsed so close to Amalia that she felt the convulsions of his body as he strained toward her and she saw that he was young.
“Bless … me.”
Amalia sat up. Had he whispered that to her? Had she imagined it? Had someone nearby spoken it? Her hand rose. Angrily, she stopped her movement. But her hand remained raised. Bless a man who had wanted to kill her? Her hand sliced away in an angry jerk. And then in compressed seconds she knew with startling clarity that by blessing this dying man she would be blessing away something in her whose death she welcomed. Her hand finished its slow benediction.
The man’s head fell onto her lap.
More sirens. An ambulance. More police cars. Several men in uniforms carrying stretchers…. A man with a television camera, another man following with a glaring light—
Amalia was aware of people staring at her—in surprise that she was alive, she knew. And she was, she was alive. Suddenly she was crying for the first time since her son had died.
Men moved cautiously toward the bleeding man’s body.
Amalia stared up at the sky.
A bright light smashed at her. A television light?—She was aware of men crouching, kneeling, lifting the body beside her, and someone was asking her something. There was another burst of light—A camera?—She was about to close her eyes against the flashing lights but she didn’t because before her she saw a dazzling white radiance enclosed in a gleam of blue and within it on a gathering of red roses stood—
Within it stood—
The Blessed Mother, with her arms outstretched to her.
Amalia held her breath and closed her eyes in awe. The Miraculous Mother was there.
When she opened her eyes again, a medic was leaning over her and asking, “Are you all right, lady, are you sure you’re all right?”
The Miraculous Mother had appeared to her. Suddenly with all her heart Amalia knew that, and she would never doubt it, because a surge of energy was sweeping away all her fear and she felt resurrected with new life.
Triumphant, she stood up. “Yes!” she said exultantly, “I am sure!”
