Gateway to the Moon_A Novel

by Mary Morris

  Inez steps back in horror. “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t heard?” the butcher says. “They’re making a bonfire of the Jews.”

  “Why?” Inez can hardly believe what she is hearing.

  “To cleanse their flesh and redeem their souls,” the old butcher says.

  Inez pays for her lamb and clasps Amelia by the hand. As they walk out of the market, Inez notices what shops are closed. Samson, the goldsmith who can shape the tiniest leaves. Eli, the tailor who makes every fabric like new. Simon, who sells honey that tastes like a field of flowers. Nothing would keep Samson from opening up his shop. Not even the Sabbath. On the outskirts of the market a cow has been slaughtered and is being sliced into pieces by the hungry peasants who seize whatever flesh they can.

  Ahead of her Inez sees the smoke rising. Huge black swirls darken the sky. She turns to Amelia. “Go home,” she orders her. “I will follow.” Amelia stares at her, tears welling in her eyes as Inez heads toward the Rossio. She cannot believe what the butcher told her. Why would they be burning the Jews? But along the road Inez passes severed limbs. Hands and feet. A jeering boy races past holding a bloody head by the hair. By the side of the road an old man writhes, holding his guts in his hand. A child lies with its head smashed in. As she approaches the Rossio, flames are rising. An endless line of Jews with their hands tied behind their backs are being shoved and kicked toward the pyres. A pregnant woman, a neighbor from her street, clasps her belly, screaming, “My child, my child.” For an instant she and Inez make eye contact. Then the woman is shoved closer to the fires.

  The vision of her own father swirls in her brain. She sees him being led into the plaza, refusing to kiss the cross, and being tied to the stake. It is as if it is happening all over again and she is, and always will be, to blame. Sickened and terrified, Inez turns. She does not run. If she runs, she will betray herself. She walks toward home, her shawl wrapped around her face, tears streaming. All the way she smells the burning flesh.

  In the courtyard her mother waits for her with Benjamin sobbing in her arms. They are certain that she will never return. When she arrives, Inez collapses on the ground. “There is no time,” her mother tells her, dragging her to her feet. “You must go down into the cellar. Bolt the lock. I will hide you there until the danger has passed.” These are more words than her mother has said to her in years.

  “But what about you?” Inez asks. “You must come as well.”

  But her mother shakes her head. “I am an old woman. I will tell them that you have left Lisbon. If I am not here, they will tear the place apart. This is the only way to save you.” Inez knows what this means. She knows that her mother might easily be struck down with a sword or tied up and dragged to the Rossio.

  “I can’t let you,” Inez says but her mother puts her finger to her lips.

  “There is no discussion. You will do this for me.”

  Inez can barely stand. “And Amelia?”

  “I have sent her away.”

  Inez protests again. “I cannot leave you…”

  But her mother is already pulling back the carpet that covers the trapdoor. “There is no time to argue.” And Dona Olivia opens the door to the secret basement.

  Benjamin makes his way down the five steps into her uncle’s secret place of worship. Inez follows. They carry with them bread and hard cheese, a bucket for water and an empty bucket in which to relieve themselves. Dona Olivia hands them blankets. Once they are settled, Inez calls up to her mother who closes the trapdoor, which Inez bolts shut from the inside. Inez hears the carpet as her mother pulls it over the door to conceal their hiding place. Then she and Benjamin are alone in the darkness.

  Her son trembles beside her. Within moments his flesh turns cold. It is as if ice has been injected into his veins. Inez reaches for him as she once did when he was a baby, and he falls into her arms. In the dark she holds him and for the first time since he was four years old and she tried to squeeze the life out of him, he lets himself be held.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  TOPOGRAPHY—1992

  Vincent Roybal stands in the archives of the New Mexico History Museum, talking to Pascual, who is buried in the cemetery in Chimayó. He is asking if he should give up his search. Vincent sifts through the stacks of folders listed under land deeds and topographical maps, hoping to stumble upon something he doesn’t even know exists. The answer to why he cannot leave Entrada, to what makes him stay. It is as if he suffers from some rare form of dementia. He has been searching for something and has no idea what it might be. As he stands, riffling through the files, Pascual says to him, “Hey, old man, what do you think you’re going to find here?”

  “Shut up,” he tells his son.

  He hears Pascual laugh. Most often it is what he hears. His son’s laughter, defying him, taunting him, but today it is different. “Keep on looking. You’re getting warmer.” It was the game Vincent used to play with Pascual when he couldn’t find something. You’re getting warmer, you’re getting colder. Maybe things would have been different if he’d just told Pascual where the damn thing was.

  Vincent is unable to move. He has come to the archives as he always does hoping that this will be the day when he finds if not the answer, at least an elusive clue, to whom his people are and why they settled in Entrada. Instead he stands perfectly still among the musty documents and yellowing parchment and dusty shelves. For weeks now he has been thinking about the day that Pascual died. It was a year to the day that he’d stopped speaking to his son. A year that they had lived together in the same house, eating the same meals in silence. A silence joined by Esmeralda, who in protest stopped speaking to her husband as well. But Vincent Roybal was a principled man, and he had only asked Pascual once, “What happened that night?”

  And he had replied, “What night?” looking Vincent square in the eyes. Whenever Pascual lied to his father, he looked at him that way.

  “I will speak to you again when you tell me the truth,” and that was the last time Vincent Roybal said a word to his son. It was surprising to Vincent because even though he’d tried to quit many things in his uneventful life—cigarettes, alcohol, the women he dallied with when his children were small—the only thing he’d ever successfully quit was speaking to Pascual. It was as if he was born into this stubbornness—as if it tapped a vein he didn’t know existed.

  Even as they slept within the same four walls, ate their meals together, watched baseball in front of the same small black-and-white TV, they did so without sharing so much as a “hello” or “pass the salt.” Pascual could never figure out how his father knew that Elena Torres was found sobbing in front of her mother’s trailer, and that his son had something to do with it, but you don’t sell beer and cigarettes and condoms in a town like Entrada and not hear things. And Vincent had heard that something had happened to that Torres girl. And some of the local boys were involved. And whenever local boys were involved, Pascual was among them.

  At first Esmeralda tolerated their silence because she assumed it was temporary. She let it go on for a week, then another, because she knew how stubborn her husband could be, but then it went on too long and she began pleading with him. She reminded him that Pascual was his youngest child. That he’d been born early and was as scrawny as a chicken. That all he’d ever wanted was his father’s love and approval. She reminded him that he had been hard on the boy and he had expected too much. And then as the weeks dragged on Vincent stopped speaking to her as well until they all moved through the house like a family of ghosts. As the wedge grew deeper, Pascual took to being out of the house more. He drank and often came home drunk. His father could not begin to divine the torments that lived within his son. A boy who had wanted to please a man he could never please and then had decided to please no one, least of all himself.

  Pascual could not bear his father’s scorn. Before the incident, he could do nothing right. He did not study the way his sister, Katrina, had studied, and he was not a
good athlete like his older brother, Tomas, who had gone to the University of New Mexico on a football scholarship, then moved to Dallas and never came back except for Christmas. Everything Pascual did was wrong. Even the first time he smoked a cigarette he lit the filter. And when he told his father, Vincent replied, “You can’t even do a bad thing right, can you?”

  So at one point Pascual gave up trying. Since he was so good at doing things wrong, he began doing them wrong all the time. But at least he’d gone to church. At least he’d confessed his sins and his priest had absolved him. Wasn’t it enough if he said his Hail Marys and Our Fathers and the priest said he was free of sin and could take communion again? And he had begged his father’s forgiveness over and over. But Pascual would not, he could not, answer his father’s question that was ringing in his ears even as he downed his nightly six-pack, even as he drove his motorcycle blindly around the bends, then flipped over into oncoming traffic on a moonless night. What happened that night?

  When Vincent got the call that there was an accident and his son was dead, he’d cried inconsolable, bitter tears until his wife said, “He is dead because of you.” Vincent did not argue with her—because he knew she was right. He stopped crying and went out to the place on the road to Chimayó where he’d hammered the white cross he’d made into the ground. He strung the wreath of plastic flowers and on the cross he painted in black block letters: PASCUAL ROYBAL. Then he walked away from the roadside memorial and began talking to his son.

  Though Vincent stopped speaking to Pascual when he was alive, he has spoken to him almost nonstop since he’s been dead. He asks his advice on matters great and small. Should he carry more varieties of beef jerky? Should he sell cigarettes to fourteen-year-olds? (He shouldn’t, but he does.) He asks if he should sell the store or diversify. Carry video cassettes and magazines. He tells Pascual about the aches in his legs and his back. He complains about Esmeralda—though Pascual won’t say anything bad about his mother. He complains about how the young people are leaving Entrada, how soon it will be a town of old ghosts. He imagines a life for Pascual. He has a wife, two kids, his own auto-repair shop, like Roberto Torres. Vincent asks how they are doing. If they are sick, he offers the remedies to make them well.

  Despite his refusal to speak to his son during his last year of life, Vincent can find a wealth of topics to address to him now. He avoids the topic that drove them apart. He does not ask about what really happened to Elena Torres. He does not refer to the way Pascual came home, drunk and stinking of vomit, smoke, semen, and blood. What good would it do him to know about it now?

  As he riffles through a folder, a piece of tattered yellow parchment catches his eye. He pulls out a topographical map and puts it on the table before him. It takes him a moment to register what he is looking at, but then he does. He lays it out flat on a nearby table. It is the original plan for the old hacienda that was first built here. He sees the width and breadth of the land—thousands of acres that over the past four hundred years have dwindled away and been sold off to pay for taxes, gambling debts, children who never amounted to much, luxuries that are never paid off, Indians who won land claims until what was left are the five dry acres upon which Vincent Roybal has his own house and his store and on which he tries to keep a patch of land watered enough so that it provides tomatoes, corn, and beans during the few warm months of the year.

  It is as if he is peering down at his land from an airplane. He has an aerial view of the old courtyard where the circle drive is now, and the store was the stable where the milk cow, laying hens, and goats for cheese were kept. The other livestock—sheep and cattle and more goats—were housed in a barn farther down in the valley. Along with the plan for the house, someone has recorded in careful script all the livestock and their numbers. There were fifteen head of cattle, twenty-seven goats, fourteen sheep that were mainly kept for their wool, dozens of chickens and ducks, and seven horses, including a brood mare. There are also eight servants listed as property. The house servants: Clara, Maria, Bernadine, and Angela. And four field hands: Pablo, Enrique, Hector, and Oscar.

  Vincent stands, stunned, before this sheet of paper. They owned slaves. It had never occurred to Vincent that his ancestors had enslaved the native people. He also notices something strange. There were no pigs. It is an odd thing. There were slaves, but no pigs. Vincent has never really thought about this before, but there are still no pigs in Entrada and as far as he can tell there never have been. In his store he sells beef jerky and beef hot dogs, turkey bacon and chicken cutlets. But he does not sell pork, not bacon or sausage links or sliced ham or chorizo or salami for sandwiches. And no one ever asks for it either. He doesn’t even know why he doesn’t. He just never has. These are the unanswered questions that keep Vincent Roybal up at night. He is made sleepless by the stories of people he’s never known and who died long before he was born. And now it seems that there were slaves.

  As Vincent holds the topographical map, he feels a cold breath on his neck and hears a voice that says to him, “See, old man. I told you if you keep looking, you’ll find something.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  MAN VERY EARLY MAKES JARS—1992

  The sun is rising over the hills. In the cool morning air Rachel Rothstein shivers and pulls her jacket tightly around her. She did not anticipate this morning chill. In the distance she hears the drums. In a moment the deer will come bounding over rises of the hills. She has no idea what to expect, but soon she sees the tips of their antlers, festooned in leaves and fur, as they prance silently toward her. There is an eerie stillness to them as if they are not moving at all, yet they are getting closer. Now the sunlight glows through their antlers.

  It is the feast day at one of the pueblos, and Rachel has come to witness the traditional dances. She knows these events are mainly for tourists as the tour buses in the parking area attest, but she wanted to see them anyway. She shouldn’t be here, really, but Nathan encouraged her to go. He even offered to get the kids to school. In fact he was so accommodating it almost made her suspicious. But Nathan said he’d relish some time alone with the boys. Rachel wanted to come no matter what. After all they’d hardly done anything since they got here except for their visit to Chaco Canyon, which hadn’t turned out very well.

  She wanted to bring the boys with her, but it is Davie’s birthday. He is turning six, and Rachel is in charge of his party at school. She must pick up the volcano ice-cream cake, made with dairy-free coconut ice cream, which Davie requested. Lately he is into volcanoes. He likes the idea that they erupt. Rachel doesn’t know why, but it is good to be curious. It was her idea to do the strawberry lava flow and the baker thought that was a great idea. She ordered the cake from the only bakery in town that can make a completely non-dairy cake. It cost almost a hundred dollars, but what does Rachel care? How often do you turn six anyway? All she has to do is pick up the cake, grab the party hats and paper plates, and be at his school for their ten thirty snack time. She promised that she’d show up at his school with the party. Besides, this is her first visit to a Pueblo feast day. She will bring the boys with her the next time.

  Nathan told her to go ahead. He’d take care of the morning shift. The boys were elated. “Can we have pancakes?” Jeremy shouted.

  “Pancakes,” Davie echoed. So Nathan said he would make pancakes.

  “With soy,” Rachel said. She wasn’t certain if he’d ever made pancakes in his life, but this morning he said he would. It pained Rachel to see how happy they were that their father would take them to school. This is, of course, what she wants. Still it caused her some pain. She left when they were all still sleeping. She kissed their foreheads as if she would not see them for a long time and headed out the door.

  The dancers move closer. Now they are shaking, tossing their antlers. They are cautious and alert as if a coyote were near, as they prance down the hillside in the morning light. The drums pound and around her the Pueblo people chant. In a circle their moccasins pound the eart
h. The bells they wear on their ankles and strapped to their knees tingle to the beat of the drums. They dance on one foot and then another. They spin in circles, their bodies hunched, antlers down, chanting. It is an unreal sound. Around them dust swirls. As the sun rises she sees their faces more clearly. Many are just boys.

  At last as they clear the ridge, they enter the main square of the pueblo. Here the people join in. They dance and hoot. They cheer and sing. The tourists are snapping pictures. But Rachel isn’t a tourist. She has no intention of being an outsider. She can’t help herself. She comes forward and joins them. Soon she finds herself stomping her feet in the dust, twirling with the deer. No one seems to mind that she is there.

  When the dance is over, she is about to leave. She wishes she could stay for the buffalo and corn dances, but she wants to give herself plenty of time to pick up Davie’s cake and get to school. But as she is heading to her car, a dancer, still wearing his antlers, approaches. He hands her two long strands of rawhide with feathers and beads at the end. Rachel takes them in her hands. “Are they for me?” The man nods and motions for her to put on the earrings. She slips them into her piercings. The feathers dangle around her neck, tickling her skin. She is so touched by this offering she doesn’t know what to do so she puts her hands together in a “namaste” blessing even though she realizes this may mean nothing to this man. He points toward a tent. “There is food and drink and you are welcome.”

  Rachel is about to ask him why he chose her. No one has ever chosen her for anything. She has never won a raffle or a contest in her life but the dancer is already heading toward the tent and fading into the rest of the herd. Rachel believes that everything happens for a reason. She believes that there is some plan even if it is not clear to us. She wants to tap into the energy that she is sure dwells in the earth, the skies. So for some reason the dancer chose her. It is a sign, but of what? To be more welcoming? That she is on the right path? But we don’t always know what that path is, do we? Still she believes it is her destiny to follow it. Of course she knows that there are other destinies. There is her mother and her own dark history. “Look what happened to the Jews,” her mother would say. “Was that our destiny?”