The Death of My Father the Pope

by Obed Silva

  Here my father was able to truly be himself and do as he wanted. There were always at least three other men, aside from my father, in this house. And aside from them, there were always your endless bottles of caguamas, cheap tequila, cans of beer, and of course—seemingly endless lines of cocaine and sometimes methamphetamine. The place, even from the street, smelled of old beer, sweat, and urine. There was nothing homelike about it; there was no kitchen, only a small restroom with a dirty toilet to shit and piss in and a sink to wash your hands and face. There was also no bed, no television, no couch to sit on, only a bar-style aluminum table with the Carta Blanca logo painted on it, with matching aluminum chairs. Beds, couches, kitchens, and televisions are material things that would be difficult to accommodate in such a small place like this, where what was most important was the drink and the drugs.

  This “cueva,” as I came to call it, served only one purpose, and that purpose was to provide a place where my father and his friends could drink and sniff or shoot up cocaine or meth all day and night for as many days and nights as their bodies could take without having to do it out in the open where everyone could see. This was a place where these men could practice discretion. This was a cave for men who wished to waste away slowly out of view of the rest of the world. This was the house of the rising sun.

  I saw David come out from it once, behind his father and mine. He looked like a nightmare, like a mother’s broken heart, thin and sickly, with pupils the size of quarters. Standing next to his father, Trini, he looked like a boy who’d just been introduced to the Devil, helpless and blue, high on the drugs that had been given to him by his own father and uncle (my father). He said hi to me and I said hi to him, and we both said that we were happy to see one another. But there was nothing happy about anything in that moment. My father was high, his father was high, he was high, and the world seemed like shit to everybody, including to me and Aarón, who was still in the car with me. The sun was hurting all of us, fathers and sons, high and not high. We were all feasting from the same pile of shit. The elephant was crushing us, and the silence that we’d swallowed felt like acid flushing down our throats, dissolving our souls. Something like a dark secret that that house quietly had been keeping was erupting like a volcano. A father had betrayed his son because he could no longer restrain the Devil. And this was the result: the son would do what the father did, but every time with a little less pain and a more empty heart. No big deal: a father has passed on his addiction to his son—he’s taught him how to be a man.

  What I didn’t know was this: that my father had been almost a better father to David than my tío Trini. On our way home after the funeral, Aarón would tell me that even though our tío Trini was clean and sober now, when he was drinking and doing drugs, he was much worse than our father. “At least our dad always had food for us and a place for us to live. When our tío Trini drank and did drugs, there were times when he wouldn’t return home for many days and his kids would be left with nothing to eat. Our dad never did that. There was always food, even if just beans and tortillas. And sometimes, all of Trini’s kids, including David, would come over to our house to eat. All of them loved our dad, but especially David. Because he said that he cared about him more than his own dad, Trini.”

  Love is strange. Fathers and sons are strange. Love between fathers and sons is even stranger. Our fathers can damage us forever and we will still love them forever. David wasn’t crying over the death of his uncle; he was crying over the death of a man that to him had become a father, even if he’d once let him inside the house of the rising sun to do the things of beasts.

  * * *

  Being so far away from my father after he and my mother divorced, I would cry when I didn’t hear from him for a long time. And when he’d finally call and I’d hear his voice I’d cry even more. Couldn’t help it—I loved him, and hearing his voice come through the speaker was overwhelming. Because although the sound of his voice meant a lot to me, I always wanted more. I wanted to see my father, so that I could touch him and wrap my arms around him so tight as to never let him go. And through the phone my father would always tell me to not cry. “No llores, hijo. Los hombres no lloran,” he’d say, pushing me to man up. But I’d continue to pour out my tears for him throughout the entire call, because I was not a man. I was a little boy who wanted to be close to his father. I needed to cry. My father was far away in Mexico and I was over here in California and a phone call was never going to fill a young boy’s heart. I needed my father then.

  Fathers were all around me, and none of them were ever Juan Silva.

  * * *

  At thirteen I did the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life. My father drove me to my tía Lupe’s house where my mother was waiting for me so that we could return to the United States. Our two-week summer vacation in Chihuahua had come to an end. When my father and I arrived at my tía’s house, my mother was in the driveway loading up the car with our suitcases. My father pulled right up to the front of the house next to the driveway, and I got out of the car and walked up to my mother, who was organizing our luggage in the trunk of the car. It was a small blue 1992 Ford Escort sedan. It was also the first car she’d ever purchased new from an actual car dealership. She was proud of this car because it was a symbol of all her hard work in the United States. She was proud of being able to return to her homeland in this symbol of success.

  On our way to Chihuahua she and I had listened to tapes of Juan Gabriel, ABBA, Michael Jackson, Madonna, and even Run-DMC, which she’d purchased for me at a gas station somewhere right before exiting California. The drive had been filled with excitement and lots of talk about what the future held for us and what we were going to do once we got to Chihuahua. She was most excited to see her father, sister, and brothers, and I was most excited to see my cousins the twins and of course my father.

  “Go say bye to your tía and tío and your cousins. ¡Apurale!” my mom said to me. I quickly ran into the house and said goodbye to everyone, but when I came out they all followed me to say their final goodbyes to my mother, who was already sitting in the car. She was in a hurry to leave, which seemed odd to me; the day before she’d talked about how terribly sad she was over having to leave. If not for the roots we’d already established in the United States and for the economic opportunities it had to offer to a single mother like herself, she would’ve preferred Chihuahua any day. Yet here she was urging me to hurry.

  Upon seeing my tía and tío and cousins come out of the house behind me, my father stepped out of his car to greet them. They were surprised by his presence; they hadn’t expected him to still be out there. “Hola, Juan,” my tío and tía said to him, and he returned the greeting while walking up to them. He shook my tío’s hand and gave my tía a hug, and then he nodded at my cousins. There were a couple of minutes of small talk between my tío and my dad, but my tía quickly turned to my mom inside the car and said goodbye and wished her a safe trip, after which my mom called out to me to hurry up and get in the car. I hugged everyone really quick one last time, including my father, and then I jumped in the car. My mom turned the ignition, put the car in reverse, and everyone moved out of the way. My father walked out of the driveway and to his car, but he didn’t get in. He stood next to the driver-side door and watched as we pulled out. He had a modest smile. My mother angled the car toward him. There was no way around it; we were headed in the direction where he was parked. And when she stopped to change the gear from reverse to drive, my father took the opportunity to walk up to her window and say hello.

  “Hola, Marcela, ¿cómo estás?” he asked, as if he and my mother were good friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time. The only thing true about this statement, of course, was that they hadn’t seen each other in a long time, and this was not because of missed opportunities; no, my mother had always made an effort to avoid seeing my father. When he’d pick me up from my tía’s house, she’d go out of her way to be as far deep in the house as she could. She didn’
t even want to accidentally get a glimpse of him through the door or a window, but more importantly, she didn’t want him to get a glimpse of her. I knew this, but I didn’t understand the depth of it, I didn’t understand the reasons for it. And because of this ignorance, I blamed my mother—she was the bad one here, always wanting nothing to do with my father, with the man who showed me love and took me everywhere with him every time I came to Chihuahua.

  And here they now were, after many years, in this moment that only I am to blame for, coming into contact once again. I look at my mom and await her response. My father’s at the window, smiling, being kind, extending an olive branch, and my mother not once turns to look at him, but she does respond with a cold and solid “Bien. Gracias.” Nothing more. Not even a “How about you.” Just “Bien. Gracias.” Like that. With the firmly placed period separating the two. Makes a lot of sense to me now. But it didn’t then.

  “Bueno,” my father finally said after a long and awkward silence, “que les vaya bien.” And then he lowered his head to look at me around my mother’s statuesque face and said, “Adios, hijo—te quiero.” My mother’s profile was prominent in my sight. It raged with an emotion that has no name. It wasn’t anger and it wasn’t fear. Disgust? Repulsion? Close. But I don’t think that even those words capture it entirely. Whatever the word, she was fully consumed by it, paralyzed. She didn’t blink or flex a muscle, not on her face or on her body. This was my mother exuding her power, knowing that my father couldn’t touch her or make her say anything she didn’t want to say—she’d been done with that many years ago. And if my father had to suffer the consequence of looking like a fool for it, then so be it. And so it was. On the other side of my mother’s profile, my father’s pathetic face pulled back and quickly disappeared from my view. All that was there was the right side of my mother’s face. And I hated it!

  She let her foot off the brake and slowly we drove away. I turned back and watched as my father looked on at us as we made it to the corner. My tía, tío, and cousins had come out from the driveway and stood behind him. My cousins waved and I waved back, but my main focus was my father, the lowly man whom I was leaving behind and had been unable to stand up for. And as we came to a stop at the corner, I turned to my mother and said, “Why did you do that? Why did you have to be so mean to him? He was being nice to you.” Then my mother said, “Son, I’m sorry, but I—I…” She struggled to speak, to articulate her reason, and in this moment of her loss for words my anger grew into rage and everything went out of control and I clenched my right fist and I pulled back my arm and then I punched her. As hard as I could. She’d been wearing a blue sleeveless top, so when I pulled back I could clearly see a big baseball-size red mark on her right arm, below her shoulder. She didn’t cry. She didn’t even yell at me. She just looked at me with sadness. Looked both ways, and then made a left turn.

  There was no Juan Gabriel or ABBA or Michael Jackson or Madonna or Run-DMC music the entire way home. But worst of all—my mother did not say one word to me for the entire eighteen hours that we would be in the car together. She just drove with a red mark on her arm that would eventually turn into a dark purple-and-black bruise that would remain there for almost two weeks. And people would ask and my mother would say … anything but the truth.

  * * *

  Before my father’s lowered into the earth and dirt is dropped on him, Aarón takes the two caguamas he’d purchased earlier out from the truck and places one on each side of the casket. This is the ultimate gesture, the ultimate goodbye from my brother to his dead father who’d been an alcoholic. There are no falsehoods here, no apologies. In the face of the world Aarón is doing exactly what his father would have wanted him to do: bury him with what killed him. Thus his will had been done.

  Some of my father’s brothers shovel dirt into the hole while some of the other mourners push piles of it in with the inner sides of their feet. A cloud of dust rises from the hole every time the dirt hits the casket, making the sound of crashing raindrops. My father’s finally being put away forever; there will be no more viewing him, no more parading him around. Adiós, Juan Silva, adiós, viejo triste.

  I wish that I could hug him,

  I wish that I could feel the stubble on his cheeks

  And smell the scent of drink on his breath!

  Here he is, coming ’round the corner

  Draggin’ a Beast behind him!

  Stumbling!

  Falling!

  Rising with fire in his eyes!

  Loud he roars!

  Hard he thunders!

  Kicking the wind and stomping the earth!

  “Te quiero vida!” he screams,

  “Te quiero! Te quiero!—y te mato.”

  “How ’bout it, son, we die together,

  And we die today?”

  “You first, Dad, you first.”

  * * *

  Only his children and wife remain. They stand by one another, and, with vacant eyes, each stares at the grave. Soon they will all go, too, and leave him behind. Soon life will have to go on without him, and all of them know this. One walks toward the cross, another kneels at the edge of the mound, and the others remain still, like statues untouched by the apocalypse. A small gust of wind blows through, whirling dust into the air. The wife looks down, one of the daughters cries, and the other shuts her eyes. This one wants to know more about the father she’s just buried; she’s been wondering for so long about the man who helped create her and now there is nothing more to say. Meanwhile, the one in the wheelchair still can’t see how things would have been better for any of them if the patriarch hadn’t died: he knows there’s a dream in the rood that is better kept secret; he sees solace in its silence; finds grace in the quiet heat, in the piled dirt, in the jagged rock he holds in his hand that cuts through his skin when he makes a fist. He’d love to chuck it to do his part. There is life in the desert, and a future in the crown of flowers. Time is ticking, and there is no more to do here; the will that governs commands that everybody must rot and be left to bloom again within minds that suffer from never forgetting. But there is too much silence, and now it’s becoming difficult to bear. Somebody must say something. How about the boy by the cross, or the one on his knees now playing with the dirt, watching it cascade from his palm onto the earth like sand flows downward in an hourglass? Or how about one of the daughters, are they lost for words as well? The wife isn’t speaking. She’s been dying for far too long; now she’s enjoying the moment, embracing the thought of peaceful nights to come, or maybe she’s thinking about finally having a drink all by herself. Certainly the one in the wheelchair isn’t going to say anything; he loves his thoughts too much, the way he’s able to mold the past, present, and future into one fucking senseless story never worth telling. All seems too much like a sad tale sprinkled with a bunch of funny moments to him. Like who really gives a fuck, really? This moment had been played out in all of their dreams for so long; someone had plastered it on a wall. Scene by scene, every act had been meticulously rehearsed, and so had every cry—every tear counted long ago. And now the curtains were coming down.

  * * *

  Here come the músicos, a pair of jolly men who’ve come to serenade the dead. Each one is holding a guitar up to his chest. Where did they come from and who invited them? They walk up to the mound of dirt and without instruction start strumming their guitars and singing “Una Cruz de Madera.” I stare at them and think, Oh, but of course, how fitting. ¡Canten, caballeros, cantenle al muerto!

  Too perfect! Too beautiful! Can I die, too, so that you may sing to me as well? My father’s living out the song. Instead of holy water, he’d been buried with two caguamas, and instead of luxuries all that was placed at the head of his tomb was a wooden cross “de la mas corriente,” and now, though not in the wee hours of the morning, he’s being serenaded by a pair of músicos. They play enchantingly. This is the magic of live music! It can turn a smile into a tear and a tear into a smile, and even make a poem out of death
. This is the moment for which you die, the moment you wish you could be alive to see. With a song everything comes full circle, and like the cross, it marks the absolute end of your life while acknowledging that you had one to begin with, and it pushes the memory of you forth into the world. Remember me, is what it always says.

  22

  I turned thirty-one today, and I didn’t receive a phone call from my father to wish me a happy birthday, something he’d done ever since I can remember. Year after year it was certain that my father, at one point or another, on my birthday, would call to wish me a happy day and to tell me that he loved me: “I’m calling to wish you a happy birthday, son, and to tell you that I love you.” Not once did he ever miss one of my birthdays. He was always there.