by Joan Boswell
Lex put his hand over hers and squeezed. Good old Charlene. He could always count on her in a pinch. They went back a long ways, he and Charlene, all the way back to their carny days when he was a barker for her Annie Oakley show. Yeah, they’d make out okay. They were survivors, he and Charlene.
Charlene heard the musical cue and got ready to take her place on the platform. She gave the black wig one last pat, pulled the white veil up over it and sucked in her stomach.
It felt good to be back in the spotlight again.
And all because of a chance meeting with a bitter old man. He’d come looking for his daughter, acting on a rumour he’d heard from some member of his small-town congregation, but he’d bumped into Charlene first.
Under Charlene’s gentle prodding, he finally admitted that he’d brought a gun with him. He told Charlene that his death would be worth the sacrifice if he could save the soul of his only daughter. He would pay the penalty for the great sin of murder, he knew, but he was willing to forego his place in heaven for her.
It didn’t take Charlene long to convince him that there was a better way. He would have heaven and his daughter would have time to repent before she stood before the heavenly throne.
As she said to him, “It’s better far for her to rot in prison than to rot in hell.” That argument clinched the deal.
When the time came, Charlene had no qualms about shooting the crazy old coot. Slipping the gun into Loretta’s pocket was a simple flick of the wrist.
Charlene smoothed the blue fabric over her hips, took a deep breath and stepped forward. “I have come with a message tonight,” she began.
When Pat Wilson’s not “on the road” delivering seminars, she’s busy writing and is the author of numerous non-fiction books. Her Living in Excellence work is a best-selling motivational audio cassette program. She now writes in the “empty nest” she shares in Nova Scotia with her husband Gerald, two cats and a dog.
In Texas They All Carry Guns
I didn’t like the way they sang,
And told it to their face,
The heartaches, and the done-me-wrongs
And the dreadful brooding pace.
I ridiculed their thinning hair
And the non-electric bass
And their oh-so-dull outfits—
They were so sadly out of place.
I screamed at them from the bar stool,
“Country singing isn’t hot!”
My heckling killed the audience,
What killed me was how they shot.
Joy Hewitt Mann
Don’t Cry for Me Argentina
Joan Boswell
Father leaned against the wall of my room. Home in Buenos Aires on a five-day pass from his posting at an army prison in the northern Argentine pampas, he’d insisted on spending his leave closeted in our apartment—unwilling to meet old friends, go out for meals or see a show.
“I only want to be here and spend my time with you and your mother,” he said when I suggested we go to a tango competition.
For five days Father never let Mother out of his sight for more than a few minutes. He sat with her on the balcony of our Recollect District apartment, held her hand as they watched television, slumped in a kitchen chair as she prepared meals. He looked ill—gaunt with dark-circled eyes and gray skin; and he acted depressed—quiet and withdrawn.
That he’d come to talk to me while he waited for his ride back to the north seemed like a positive sign.
“We’re losing the war. The Generals should have known the British would never give up the Malvinas,” he said.
“Will that be a good thing?”
“It’ll mean the end of them, of the Generals.”
“Father, what’s the matter?”
Although his expression remained impassive, he stared at me with a frightening intensity. “Paula, you’ve always been a good daughter. I have something important I want you to know. First, you must promise not to tell your mother; she’s been sick, and I can’t burden her. Also, you must not act until the Generals are gone.”
The hunted look in his eyes and the urgency of his words frightened me.
Mother stepped into the room. “Enrico, they’re here—it’s time to go.”
Father enveloped me in a bear hug. “Never forget how much I love you,” he said in a normal voice and then whispered, “The tiger—remember when you were a little girl?”
The tiger! What could a tiger have to do with anything?
After he’d gone, Mother prepared two cups of maté that we took to the balcony, where we sat amid a jungle of greenery inhaling the spicy fragrance of geraniums.
“Mother, I can understand why he’s so thin. It’s happened since the army moved him north to the pampas. The heat and humidity must be terrible, and the food’s probably rotten. But it isn’t just his weight. He’s so withdrawn and different than he used to be.” I reached over and clasped her arm. “What’s wrong with Father?”
“It’s his job. Something about it is destroying him.” Mother gently laid her hand over mine. “But he refuses to talk about it. He says it’s better for me not to know.” Tears slipped down her pale, papery cheeks. “I pleaded with him to set up an appointment with Dr. Rodriguez. Even if the doctor didn’t think Enrico was sick, and I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t conclude immediately that he was, he’s an old friend and would provide Enrico with a certificate saying he was unfit. If he had that, he could apply for a medical discharge.”
“What did Father say?”
“That there was no point seeing Franco Rodriguez because they would never allow him to leave the army: there was no way out.”
“When’s his next leave?”
“When I asked, he said he wasn’t sure and, if he didn’t come back, to remember how much he loved us.” She sobbed and reached in the pocket of her printed green skirt for one of her embroidered handkerchiefs. “I knew he wanted to say more, but he was afraid.”
I wondered if I should bring up his cryptic reference to the tiger, but I didn’t think she’d heard his remark, and I decided it wouldn’t be helpful to tell her. Reluctantly, I went off to classes at the Catholic University.
During my lectures and long after I should have slept, I puzzled about his reference to tigers, but I couldn’t relate tigers to anything important in my childhood.
Thursday morning, we were drinking our usual strong coffee and munching sweet rolls liberally spread with dulce de leche when the phone rang. Mother answered.
“Yes. What? It can’t be. He was here earlier this week. I don’t understand. A prison riot? Shot.” She listened, said “Thank you” and replaced the phone on its cradle.
“You heard,” she said, her eyes wide and her face slack, as if all the supporting bones had disintegrated.
“Tell me.”
“He was shot by a prisoner who grabbed his gun.”
She sank down and buried her face in her hands. Then she lifted her head. Instead of tears, her eyes reflected pain and anger.
“How could they phone? When an officer is killed, they always send a senior officer to break the news. This phone call is a slap in the face, an insult, they’ve told us as if he was no more important than a dog run over in the street.”
There was fear and resignation in her voice and in her eyes.
“They killed him,” she said.
A week later, two days after Father’s funeral, Mother and I again sat on the balcony. Mother, who normally rose every minute to deadhead flowers, water wilting plants or tie a tendril escaping from her jungle, did nothing. Instead, she hunched down in her chair with her hands lying quietly in her lap. I toyed with a strand of my hair, repeatedly twisting it around my finger and releasing it.
Looking down at the street below, I noticed a green Ford Falcon, the car the army always drove when they arrested people or picked them up for questioning, cruising slowly while the man in the passenger seat peered through his dark glasses at the apartments. In front of our bui
lding, the vehicle glided to a halt.
“Mother.” I reached over and grabbed her arm. “Mother, it’s the army.”
She roused herself, and we watched two uniformed men leave the car. Seconds later, our buzzer sounded. The terror I saw in her eyes must have been reflected in mine.
It wasn’t as if we’d committed any crime. In Argentina, the green Falcons had stopped at the homes and offices of thousands of people who, as far as their relatives and friends knew, had never said or done a subversive thing. Many men and women had never been heard from again.
“Thank God he didn’t tell us anything,” Mother said in a tiny voice.
The buzzer demanded a response. With slow steps, Mother went to the intercom and let them in.
Two uniformed men, eyes blanked by dark glasses, strode into the room. Their aggressive body language and cruel turned-down mouths threatened and intimidated.
“Where are his papers?”
Mother, her thin hands trembling, pointed to the desk in the corner of the living room.
The taller one riffled through Father’s meagre store of documents and threw two or three in his briefcase.
“Any more?”
Mother, beyond speech, shook her head; it probably wouldn’t have mattered what she said, because they ignored us as they checked drawers and cupboards before they pulled books from shelves in the kitchen and living room.
“Father was an army officer. Why are you doing this?”
The short one, whose body odour repulsed me, stopped and sized me up before he snarled, “Some officer.”
“You.” He pointed at Mother. “You, come with us.”
Helpless to do anything, I grabbed and squeezed her emaciated hand and murmured, “It’ll be okay, you’ll be back soon.”
I was alone.
What should I do? On the one hand, I could go to police headquarters and demand that they release my mother, the widow of a recently deceased army officer. But, like her, I believed they’d deliberately killed my father. Would going to the police make it better or worse for Mother?
On the other hand, if I didn’t go and show righteous indignation, would it confirm the army’s obvious suspicion that not only were we aware he’d committed a crime but also knew the details? Furthermore, if I didn’t insist on being told where they were detaining her, I wouldn’t have the smallest chance of locating her, not that they were likely to tell me no matter what I did. The Generals believed in secrecy, rumour and terror.
Who to go to for advice? The answer—no one.
Families who hadn’t had a visit from the Ford Falcons pretended nothing was happening.
Families who had often lived in limbo. I thought of my friend Alicia, whose whole family—father, mother and two brothers—had disappeared eight months ago. Alicia had tried every avenue to discover her family’s whereabouts but learned nothing. Finally, as a last resort, one Thursday she went to the Plaza de Mayo and joined other women whose loved ones had vanished. Silently, they circled the obelisk in the centre of the square, each one wearing a white headscarf and carrying a placard with the photo and name or names of the disappeared. Las Madres de la Plaza Mayo.
Because my father was in the army, I’d never imagined I’d be in Alicia’s position. And it was too soon to say I was; occasionally those taken for questioning did come home. No, for the moment I’d do nothing, I’d wait and keep a vigil for Mother.
Whatever reason they’d murdered my father had to be the same reason that had brought the army to our apartment. And, whatever it was had been terribly important to Father. I didn’t have much time—they might come for me at any second. I had to figure out what he’d meant by his cryptic reference to the tiger, and I couldn’t wait for the Generals to lose power.
While my mind twisted and turned, searching for clues, I wandered to the living room and began to replace the books on the shelves. As I picked up a photo album, it occurred to me that the snapshots might give me a hint. Perched on the blue plush couch, I opened the book.
The snaps of Mother and Father in the early years before Father lost his business and enlisted in the army broke my heart. Younger than I was now, their optimism and joy jumped off the page. After my birth, the photos continued to reflect a happy life, particularly those taken with my grandparents at the beach and the zoo.
The zoo. The tigers at the zoo—a vague memory of terror. Why? It came to me. I’d been frightened by the intensity of a tiger’s gaze and screamed that he wanted to eat me. At night, I’d been afraid to sleep in case the tiger crept in and gobbled me up. My father had bought me a toy tiger, but it hadn’t banished my fear, and he’d done something else; what had it been?
No other photographs solved the puzzle. Maybe the box of children’s books and toys stashed in my closet would trigger a memory. I scrambled deep in the cupboard and hauled out a cardboard carton bulging with mementos. The removal of the first layer of treasured books reminded me of the evenings when Father had read to me. Tears blurred my eyes.
Cuentos de Hadas de Grimm, how those fairy stories had thrilled me. And Jorge el Curioso, that little monkey’s curiosity had landed him in such trouble. The sight of Negrito Sambo, worn, tattered and circled with an elastic, as if to hold loosened pages inside produced a vivid flashback—this book had helped overcome my fear. I’d loved Little Black Sambo because the tigers chased each other round and round the tree until they metamorphosed into butter.
Pure, unadulterated fear. This was what he’d meant. Inside the book I’d find the answer; find the cause of his death.
The door buzzer. A long sustained buzz—the green Falcon had returned.
Frantically, I piled the books in the box with Negrito Sambo tucked in the middle. As I shoved the carton in the cupboard I prayed that the elastic wouldn’t break; that the officers wouldn’t open the book; that they wouldn’t be interested in my childhood treasures.
Saying nothing, the same two men pushed past me. I stood irresolute, unsure of where to go or what to do.
In the living room, the two of them once again pawed through the chaos they’d created and tossed more books from the bookcases. Then the shorter one entered my room and the other one went to my parents’.
“Come in here.” An order from the short one who smelled of garlic and dirty underwear. He pointed to the shoeboxes of file cards on my desk. “What are those?”
“I’m at the university. It’s information for my thesis on nineteenth century immigration.”
Because of his reflecting sunglasses, I couldn’t see his eyes, but by his little smirk and his theatrical pause before he upended the boxes and watched the cards cascade to the floor, I knew he revelled in his abuse of power. Of course I didn’t protest—I didn’t want to do or say anything to draw attention to me or my room.
He hauled everything out of my cupboard and dumped clothes, old textbooks and the box of children’s toys and books.
I stopped breathing.
If he looked at me, would he know? Was Little Black Sambo pulsing on my forehead in neon lights? Could he read my fear in the sweat beading my forehead and running between my shoulder blades?
After a cursory glance at the worn, much-loved books, the Teddy bear with a button replacing an eye and the battered dolls, he ignored my childish keepsakes. I breathed. The taste of bile filled my mouth. I wanted to rush to the bathroom and vomit.
They found nothing.
After they’d gone, I was sick repeatedly and then, weak-kneed and faint, I staggered to my bed, threw myself down and sobbed myself to the verge of hysteria before I rolled over and said, “enough”. Time to face up to fear.
I picked up Little Black Sambo and slipped the elastic off. The original contents had been removed and replaced with pages cut to fit inside and stapled to the cover. Lists of names and dates penned in my father’s meticulous handwriting filled the pages.
Inside the cover he’d folded and secured an envelope addressed to me.
My darling Paula, I am writing
this to you and not to your mother because I want to protect her from the shock of discovering what I’ve done. Please use this information to give a little bit of peace to the families involved.
I will burn in hell for the terrible work I’ve had to do here in the prison, but by keeping this record I hope to ease the pain for those who do not know.
The women whose names are listed were killed here. The guards raped many of them repeatedly until they were pregnant. The babies were taken and given to military families. I have written the gender and date of birth of each baby underneath its mother’s name and I have made as complete a record as I could.
If you are reading this, I am dead but I want you and your mother to remember how much I loved you and how I wish I hadn’t joined the army or been stationed to work in the prison.
Your loving father.
My face must have appeared as boneless as my mother’s face had when she’d heard about Father’s death.
The contents of the letter explained his physical and mental disintegration. And I was as sure as I’d ever been about anything that he’d been killed because another guard or a superior officer suspected what he’d been doing. I thanked God that he hadn’t revealed the hiding place to my mother and that I hadn’t mentioned his reference to tigers. I prayed that ignorance would protect her.
Terror threatened to immobilize me, but I refused to allow it. I had an obligation to Father, an obligation to pass on to the mothers of the Plaza de Mayo the information he’d given his life to collect.
Today was Tuesday. Where should I hide the book until Thursday? There was no time to waste. The police habitually turned up repeatedly seeking more information or terrorizing you into confessions of wrongdoing.
With the book clutched in my hand, I rushed to the kitchen, tore a strip of aluminum foil from the roll, wrapped the book and sealed the edges with cellophane tape. On the balcony I grabbed Mother’s trowel, dug a hole along the side of the largest potted plant, a fig tree, inserted the package and buried it. I detached six or seven leaves from the plant and spread them to cover the disturbed soil.
