Two days later, at 1 o’clock in the afternoon, Maxine was sitting in the parking lot behind the car dealership when she heard a tap on her window.
“Denise explained your problem to me,” Bill said after she got out of the car and they shook hands. His thin brown hair was tied up in a wispy ponytail. He wore earrings and Earth shoes. “Peace Corps,” was written all over him. “To think that in 1994 in the United States this kind of discrimination goes on—It’s just … just appalling,” he said, his voice rising. He balled up his right fist and punched it into his other palm. “And yours isn’t an isolated case. Just wait here. As soon as the guy gives me an offer in writing, I’ll come out and get you.”
Nearly an hour later, Maxine was sitting in the office of the manager of the dealership; he and Ted had the same twisted lips and ghostly pallor. Bill turned to the men. “I believe you have something to say to my client,” he said.
Paul, the manager, eyed Bill with the caution of a man fearing a hidden weapon. Semiautomatic. “Yes, Miss Cranston, on behalf of the company, we would like to extend our sincere apologies for this … uh … unfortunate misunderstanding. And to underscore our sincerity, we’d like to offer you the convertible, at no cost to you, with our …”—only death could have been paler than Paul’s face—“… our compliments.”
Looking at the two men, Maxine wanted to scream until all the anger and helplessness that Ted had stirred up within her—all the terrible memories—had subsided. “It’s not enough!” she wanted to yell. But she didn’t. She was her mama’s child.
Denise noticed later that the convertible sat untouched at first, like a fresh peach too pretty to be eaten. “Sometimes I feel like it’s too good for me,” Maxine admitted. But gradually she began to drive the car regularly, to put the top down and feel the wind in her hair, to let the sun kiss her face. Denise saw a promise there that she knew would take time to be fulfilled. But she was hopeful. An expanded vision is not something that tends to recede.
The Day the Cisco Kid Shot John Wayne
NASH CANDELARIA
Just before I started the first grade we moved from Los Rafas into town. It created a family uproar that left hard feelings for a long time.
“You think you’re too good for us,” Uncle Luis shouted at Papa in Spanish, “just because you finished high school and have a job in town! My God! We grew up in the country. Our parents and grandparents grew up in the country. If New Mexico country was good enough for them—”
Papa stood with his cup and saucer held tightly in his hands, his knuckles bleached by the vicious grip as if all the blood had been squeezed up to his bright red face. But even when angry, he was polite to his older brother.
“I’ll be much closer to work, and Josie can have the car to shop once in a while. We’ll still come out on weekends. It’s only five miles.”
Uncle Luis looked around in disbelief. My aunt tried not to look at either him or Papa, while Grandma sat on her rocking chair smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. She was blind and couldn’t see the anger on the men’s faces, but she wasn’t deaf. Her chair started to rock faster, and I knew that in a moment she was going to scream at them both.
“It’s much closer to work,” Papa repeated.
Before Uncle Luis could shout again, Grandma blew out a puff of cigarette smoke in exasperation. “He’s a grown man, Luis. With a wife and children. He can live anywhere he wants.”
“But what about the—”
He was going to say orchard next to Grandma’s house. It belonged to Papa and everyone expected him to build a house there someday. Grandma cut Uncle short: “Enough!”
As we bumped along the dirt of Rafas Road toward home in the slightly used Ford we were all so proud of, Papa and Mama talked some more. It wasn’t just being nearer to work, Papa said, but he couldn’t tell the family because they wouldn’t understand. It was time for Junior—that was me—to use English as his main language. He would get much better schooling in town than in the little country school where all the grades were in just two rooms.
“Times have changed,” Papa said. “He’ll have to live in the English-speaking world.”
It surprised me. I was, it turned out, the real reason we were moving into town, and I felt a little unworthy. I also felt apprehensive about a new house, a new neighborhood, and my first year in school. Nevertheless, the third week in August we moved into the small house on Fruit Avenue, not far from Immaculate Heart Parochial School.
I barely had time to acquaint myself with the neighborhood before school began. It was just as well. It was not like the country. Sidewalks were new to me, and I vowed to ask Santa Claus for roller skates at Christmas like those that city kids had. All of the streets were paved, not just the main highway like in the country. At night streetlights blazed into life so you could see what was happening outside. It wasn’t much. And the lights bothered me. I missed the secret warm darkness with its silence punctuated only by the night sounds of owls and crickets and frogs and distant dogs barking. Somehow the country dark had always been a friend, like a warm bed and being tucked in and being hugged and kissed good night.
There were no neighbors my age. The most interesting parts of the neighborhood were the vacant house next door and the vacant lot across the street. But then the rush to school left me no time to think or worry about neighbors.
I suppose I was a little smug, a little superior, marching off that first day. My little sister and brother stood beside Aunt Tillie and watched anxiously through the front window, blocking their wide-eyed views with their steaming hot breaths. I shook off Mama’s hand and shifted my new metal lunchbox to that side so she wouldn’t try again.
Mama wanted to walk me into the classroom, but I wouldn’t let her, even though I was frightened. On the steps in front of the old brick school building a melee of high voices said goodbye to mothers, interrupted by the occasional tearful face or clinging hand that refused to let go. At the corner of the entrance, leaning jauntily against the bricks, leered a brown-faced tough whose half-closed eyes singled me out. Even his wet, combed hair, scrubbed face, and neatly patched clothes did not disguise his true nature.
He stuck out a foot to trip me as I walked past. Like with my boy cousins in the country, I stepped on it good and hard without giving him even so much as a glance.
Sister Mary Margaret welcomed us to class. “You are here,” she said, “as good Catholic children to learn your lessons well so you can better worship and glorify God.” Ominous words in Anglo that I understood too well. I knew that cleanliness was next to godliness, but I never knew that learning your school lessons was—until then.
The students stirred restlessly, and during the turmoil I took a quick look around. It reminded me of a chocolate sundae. All the pale-faced Anglos were the vanilla ice cream, while we brown Hispanos were the sauce. The nun, with her starched white headdress under her cowl, could have been the whipped cream except that I figured she was too sour for that.
I had never been among so many Anglo children before; they outnumbered us two to one. In the country church on Sundays it was rare to see an Anglo. The only time I saw many of these foreigners—except for a few friends of my father’s—was when my parents took me into town shopping.
“One thing more,” Sister Mary Margaret said. She stiffened, and her face turned to granite. It was the look that I later learned meant the ruler for some sinner’s outstretched hands. Her hard eyes focused directly on me. “The language of this classroom is English. This is America. We will only speak English in class and on the school grounds.” The warning hung ominously in the silent, crackling air. She didn’t need to say what we brownfaces knew: If I hear Spanish, you’re in trouble.
As we burst from the confines of the room for our first recess, I searched for that tough whose foot I had stomped on the way in. But surprise! He was not in our class. This puzzled me, because I had thought there was only one first grade.
I found him out on the school grounds, thou
gh. Or rather, he found me. When he saw me, he swaggered across the playground tailed by a ragtag bunch of boys like odds and ends of torn cloth tied to a kite. One of the boys from my class whispered to me in English with an accent that sounded normal—only Anglos really had accents. “Oh, oh! Chango, the third-grader. Don’t let his size fool you. He can beat up guys twice as big.” With which my classmate suddenly remembered something he had to do across the way by the water fountain.
“¡Ojos largos!” Chango shouted at me. I looked up in surprise. Not so much for the meaning of the words, which was “big eyes,” but for his audacity in not only speaking Spanish against the nun’s orders, but shouting it in complete disregard of our jailers in black robes.
“Yes?” I said in English like an obedient student. I was afraid he would see my pounding heart bumping the cloth of my shirt.
Chango and his friends formed a semicircle in front of me. He placed his hands on his hips and thrust his challenging face at me, his words in the forbidden language. “Let’s see you do that again.”
“What?” I said in English, even though I knew what.
“And talk in Spanish,” he hissed at me. “None of your highfalutin Anglo.”
Warily I looked around to see if any of the nuns were nearby. “¿Qué?” I repeated when I saw that the coast was clear.
“You stepped on my foot, big eyes. And your big eyes are going to get it for that.”
I shook my head urgently. “Not me,” I said in all innocence. “It must have been somebody else.”
But he knew better. In answer, he thrust a foot out and flicked his head at it in invitation. I stood my ground as if I didn’t understand, and one of his orderlies laughed and hissed, “¡Gallina!”
The accusation angered me. I didn’t like being called chicken but a glance at the five of them waiting for me to do something did wonders for my self-restraint.
Then Chango swaggered forward, his arms out low like a wrestler’s. He figured I was going to be easy, but I hadn’t grown up with older cousins for nothing. When he feinted an arm at me, I stood my ground. At the next feint, I grabbed him with both hands, one on his wrist, the other at his elbow, and tripped him over my leg that snapped out like a jack-knife. He landed flat on his behind, his face changing from surprise to anger and then to caution, all in an instant.
His cronies looked down at him for the order to jump me, but he ignored them. He bounced up immediately to show that it hadn’t hurt or perhaps had been an accident and snarled, “Do that again.”
I did. This time his look of surprise shaded into one of respect. His subordinates looked at each other in wonder and bewilderment. “He’s only a first-grader,” one of them said. “Just think how tough he’s going to be when he’s older.”
Meanwhile I was praying that Chango wouldn’t ask me to do it a third time. I had a premonition that I had used up all of my luck. Somebody heard my prayer, because Chango looked up from the dirt and extended a hand. Was it an offer of friendship, or did he just want me to pull him to his feet?
To show that I was a good sport, I reached down. Instead of a shake or a tug up, he pulled me down so I sprawled alongside him. Everybody laughed.
“That’s showing him, Chango,” somebody said.
Then Chango grinned, and I could see why the nickname. With his brown face, small size, and simian smile there could be no other. “You wanna join our gang?” he asked. “I think you’ll do.” What if I say no? I thought. But the bell saved me, because they started to amble back to class. “Meet us on the steps after school,” Chango shouted. I nodded, brushing the dust from my cords as I hurried off.
That was how I became one of Los Indios, which was what we called ourselves. It was all pretty innocent, not at all what people think of when they see brown faces, hear Spanish words, and are told about gangs. It was a club really, like any kid club. It made us more than nonentities. It was a recognition, like the medal for bravery given to the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz.
What we mostly did was walk home together through enemy territory. Since we were Los Indios, it was the cowboys and the settlers we had to watch out for. The Anglo ones. Vaqueros y paisanos were okay. Also, it was a relief to slip into Spanish again after guarding my tongue all day so it wouldn’t incite Sister Mary Margaret. It got so I even began to dream in English and that made me feel very uncomfortable, as if I were betraying something very deep and ancient and basic.
Some of the times, too, there were fights. As I said before, we were outnumbered two to one, and the sound of words in another language sometimes outraged other students, although they didn’t seem to think about that when we all prayed in Latin. In our parish it was a twist on the old cliché; the students that pray together fight together—against each other.
But there was more to Los Indios than that. Most important were the movies. I forget the name of the theater. I think it was the Rio. But no matter. We called it the Rat House. When it was very quiet during the scary part of the movie, just before the villain was going to pounce on the heroine, you could hear the scamper of little feet across the floor. We sat with our smelly tennis shoes up on the torn seats—we couldn’t have done any more harm to those uncomfortable lumps. And one day someone swore he saw a large, gray furry something slither through the cold, stale popcorn in the machine in the lobby. None of us would ever have bought popcorn after that, even if we’d had the money.
For a dime, though, you still couldn’t beat the Rat House. Saturday matinees were their specialty, although at night during the week they showed Spanish-language movies that parents and aunts and uncles went to see. Saturdays, though, were for American Westerns, monster movies, and serials.
Since I was one of the few who ever had money, I was initiated into a special assignment that first Saturday. I was the front man, paying hard cash for a ticket that allowed me to hurry past the candy counter—no point in being tempted by what you couldn’t get. I slipped down the left aisle near the screen, where behind a half-drawn curtain was a door on which was painted “Exit.” No one could see the sign because the light bulb was burned out, and they never replaced it in all the years we went there. I guess they figured if the lights were too strong, the patrons would see what a terrible wreck the theater was and not come back.
The owner was a short, round, excitable man with the wrinkles and quavering voice of a person in his seventies but with black, black hair. We kept trying to figure out whether it was a toupee or not, and if it was, how we could snatch it off.
For all his wrinkles, though, he could rush up and down the aisles and grab an unruly kid by the collar and march him out like nothing you ever saw. So fast that we nicknamed him Flash Gordo. We would explode into fits of laughter when one of us saw him zoom down the aisle and whispered “Flash Gordo” to the rest of us. He gave us almost as many laughs as Chris-Pin Martin of the movies.
I counted out my money that first Saturday. I was nervous, knowing what I had to do, and the pennies kept sticking to my sweaty fingers. Finally, in exasperation, Flash Gordo’s long-nosed wife counted them herself, watching me like a hawk so I wouldn’t try to sneak in until she got to ten, and then she growled, “All right!”
Zoom! Past the candy counter and down the aisle like I said, looking for Flash. I didn’t see him until I got right up front, my heart pounding, and started to move toward the door. That’s when this circular shadow loomed in the semi-dark, and I looked up in fright to see him standing at the edge of the stage looking at the screen. Then he turned abruptly and scowled at me as if he could read my mind. I slipped into an aisle seat and pretended I was testing it by bouncing up and down a couple of times and then sliding over to try the next one.
I thought Flash was going to say something as he walked in my direction. But he suddenly bobbed down and picked something off the floor—a dead rat?—when a yell came from the back of the theater. “Lupe and Carlos are doing it again! Back in the last row!”
Flash bolted upright so quickly
my mouth fell open. Before I could close it, he rushed up the aisle out of sight, toward those sex maniacs in the last row. Of all the things Flash Gordo could not tolerate, this was the worst. And every Saturday some clown would tattle on Lupe and Carlos, and Flash would rush across the theater. Only later did I learn that there never was any Lupe or Carlos. If there had been, I’m sure Los Indios would have kept very quiet and watched whatever it was they were doing back there.
“Oh, Carlos!” someone yelled in a falsetto. “Stop that this minute!”
I jumped out of my seat and rushed to the door to let Los Indios in. By the time Flash Gordo had shined his flashlight over and under the seats in the back, we were all across the theater at the edge of the crowd where we wouldn’t be conspicuous. Later we moved to our favorite spot in the front row, where we craned our necks to look up at the giant figures acting out their adventures.
While the movies were fantastic—the highlight of our week—sometimes I think we had almost as much fun talking about them afterwards and acting them out. It was like much later when I went to high school; rehashing the Saturday night dance or party was sometimes better than the actual event.
We all had our favorites and our definite point of view about Hollywood movies. We barely tolerated those cowboy movies with actors like Johnny Mack Brown and Wild Bill Elliot and Gene Autry and even Hopalong Cassidy. Gringos! we’d sniff with disdain. But we’d watch them in preference to roaming the streets, and we’d cheer for the Indians and sometimes for the bad guys if they were swarthy and Mexican.
They showed the Zorro movies several times each, including the serials, with one chapter each Saturday. Zorro drew mixed reviews and was the subject of endless argument. “Spanish dandy!” one would scoff. “¿Dónde están los mejicanos?” Over in the background hanging on to their straw sombreros and smiling fearfully as they bowed to the tax collector, I remember.
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