Names on a Map
Page 28
He watched as they drove away.
He lit a cigarette and walked down the block. A few min-
utes later, he found himself at the steps of Holy Family Catholic Church. He sat on the steps. He thought of his grandmother’s
body, lying inside. He hadn’t said good-bye. But why did that
matter? Why couldn’t you just die? Why couldn’t you just leave?
Why did you have to embrace everyone around you with awk-
ward hugs and say things you weren’t sure you meant? Why did
you have to go to hotel rooms and make love to someone?
Why couldn’t you just dispense with the all the rituals?
That’s what he would do. He would dispense with rituals. He
would just leave.
He walked back home and stared at the house as if it were
a person. He walked inside, smiled at his mother as she cleared some plates from the dining room. He walked into his room. He
found his backpack in the back of his closet. He took out a few things from his drawer, some socks, underwear, some T-shirts.
He took a few shirts from the closet, folded them, not neatly, then threw in a couple pairs of jeans. He fumbled through the
bottom drawer and found some pictures—Xochil, Charlie, his
mom and dad. He packed them in one of the pockets of his back-
pack. There wasn’t much to take.
a f am i ly l 335
He had some money—a hundred and twenty dollars. It might
be enough. For a while. Until he thought of a plan. He sat down on Charlie’s bed. He thought of smoking a cigarette. No smoking in the house. “Yes, Mom,” he whispered. “I promise. No smoking in the house.”
You are a young man.
But your world is gone. It has disappeared.
Your grandfather is gone.
Your grandmother is gone.
The dog you loved as a boy is gone.
You did not take the rifle your father gave you. And now your country offers you another. Your country offers you a manhood you do not want. And you think that perhaps Jack Evans is right. You are just a coward. You are just afraid. You are a young man who refuses to become a man. Coward. And you wonder what it is like to be Jack Evans. To think the things he thinks. To feel the things he feels. To believe the things he believes. You do not blame him. You want to make yourself like him, like Jack Evans. You do. Then you would know peace. Then you would be like all the other boys who accepted their inevitable manhood with grace.
But you were born to be another kind of man. You cannot change what is in your heart. And you hate, you hate that you have one, a heart. You hate, you hate your heart. But it is all you have. You must stand it. You must bear it.
You picture your grandmother’s eyes. You picture her old, soft, wrinkled hands on your smooth face. You will never feel those hands again.
You know that more losses are coming. If you go to war, then you will have to learn to kill. They tell you it is for your country. They tell you it is to protect your way of life. They tell you it is for freedom. They tell you it is your duty. They tell you that this is the way the world is, and you are a part of that world, and the world knows more than you, is wiser than you, you, you who know nothing—but you know that
336 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p you are not a part, have never been a part, will never be a part. Can you go? Will you go to that strange land?
And you know that you will not, cannot go. And you hate yourself.
And you hate the country that gave you yourself—the self that you hate.
You will lose your father—though you know you lost him long ago.
You will lose your mother.
You will refuse to break.
You will lose your sister.
You will lose your brother.
Your mother, your sister, your brother, your mother, your sister, your brother.
Mother, sister, brother. They are everything.
You will refuse to break.
You hear your mother telling you that you are afraid of hurting the people you love.
You know what you have to do.
You will refuse to break.
You will bury your grandmother.
You will leave.
You will go to Mexico.
You will live in exile.
Exile will become the only freedom you know.
You will be alive.
But you will also be dead.
He shook his head. He stared at his fists, clenched around
the twenty-dollar bills he was clutching. He stuffed the money in one of the pockets of the jeans he’d packed. He hid the backpack under his bed, and made his way back into the living room. There were people there. In the living room.
adam
Da Nang, Vietnam, September 21, 1967
He couldn’t sleep.
Smoking that shit never helped, made him feel funny, like
people were looking at him. It was supposed to relax you, but
that’s not how it worked on him. Whit, hell, it made him feel
like he was on top of the fucking Empire State Building. That’s because the sonofabitch was one happy motherfucker.
But he wasn’t Whit.
Never would be Whit.
You know, he thought about how he’d felt when he finished
all his training. Man, that had felt real good. Better than being drunk. Better than pot, better than all that shit. Man, he’d felt like everything was gonna be just fine.
He’d remembered what he’d talked about with Whit as they
sat on the beach. “You know maybe all this isn’t such a good
idea.”
Whit just laughed. “What, shit, everyone smokes this shit.”
338 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p
“Not this, fuckwad. The war, the fucking war.”
“Shit, too fucking late to be asking that question, asshole.
We’re in it, now, buddy, so let’s just go to it, do our bit, and go fucking home.”
“You think we’ll win it?”
“I don’t think about it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not on me. Winning this war—that’s just not on me,
baby. You got that? You know, we got our piece of it. That’s what we got. I don’t think you should be fucking thinking shit like that, either. We do our job. If we do it just right, we won’t get our fucking asses shot off. We do our tour, try to have as many good times as we fucking can, then get the fuck home. That’s it, buddy.”
“What about the big fucking picture, Whit? What about
that?”
“You know what? I don’t have that view from my window.
You don’t fucking either, motherfucker. We just don’t live in the right house. Some people got a nice view of things. You and I, we don’t. So just fuckin’ relax. I got your back. You got mine. We’re gonna do all right.”
He wished he were like Whit. Everything would be all right
with Whit. But him? Hell, he wasn’t so sure anymore.
It didn’t help, the news about Salvi.
Made it back home—then fucking offed himself.
He’d gotten a postcard. Whit too. “Guess I didn’t fucking
make it after all.”
Shit, Salvi, what the fuck did you do?
xo ch i l
At the Desert Lodge Hotel on Montana, he parks his car right
in front of the room. You have seen this place before as you passed it and wondered about it, and wondered even more when your
uncle once remarked, “You can rent a room there by the hour.”
You remember that remark as he pulls his car up in the space in front of the room. He has made all the arrangements. He looks at you and smiles, then rubs his sweaty palms on the lap of his pants and you can see he is trembling. That makes you happy, that he is more nervous, more afraid, than you. You reach over and k
iss him, and you think he tastes like a salty desert. You are lost in that kiss and you are happy to be lost and you are no longer scared.
You pull away from each other, and he gets out of the car and
rushes to open the door for you, and he seems like a boy who is playing at being a man. You step out, he pulls you close, and you walk toward the door. You can feel the heat of the day on the
concrete, almost as warm as a human body.
340 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p You laugh and he looks at you with a question in his eyes. So
serious. That is what you say. “Such a serious soldier.” His trembling hands cannot get the key into the door. So you laugh, take the keys from him, unlock the door for him, and push it open.
“There,” you say. And you look at him and he looks at you and
you walk into the room, which has the faint smell of cigarettes and vomit.
You both laugh.
“It doesn’t smell nice, does it?” he says. “I’ll get another
room.”
You shake your head. “No,” you say. “This one. I like this one.”
And you turn on the lamp and you feel something inside you, not a bad thing, not an ugly thing, but something else, something
that resembles the morning light, something that resembles a
star in the night, and it is a freedom to tell yourself, I love him I love him I love him. And the future does not matter. The future, what is that? The future is a kind of death you do not seek or want. You stand before each other, you and him, and you are as still as you have ever been as you watch him take off his shirt, and then you hear yourself speak. “Touch me.”
a f am i ly
Mexico threw us out. And then, as we left, it spit on us. Isn’t that what the old man said before he died?”
“He said that only once. And that was long before he died.
He wasn’t that bitter about the whole thing. Not in the end. Just wasn’t in him to be bitter.”
“Mom was bitter.”
“She wasn’t used to life without servants.”
“That’s a mean thing to say.”
“Don’t you remember? There was at least one servant for ev-
ery member of the family—and that didn’t include the men who
worked the land.”
“Strange—it doesn’t feel real anymore—”
“We were just boys.”
“Yes. If things had been different—”
“We’d still be rich.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. We could have still lost everything.”
342 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p
“I would have liked the chance. You know, maybe I’m the one
who’s bitter.”
“How old were you, when we left?”
“Eleven. I loved that place. I still dream it.”
“I remember your horse.”
“San Pedro. Black as night.”
“That’s right.”
Gustavo watched his uncles, studied their faces as they talked.
Tonight, they seemed sedate and pensive, and he liked them. He didn’t always like them. They could be mean—all of them, none
of them as gentle as his grandfather. They mostly felt foreign, his uncles and his father. Tonight they felt like home.
He listened to their voices—and then he remembered, Xochil!
And a wave of panic, Xochil. Shit Xochil. Dad would kill her—
charl ie . g us t avo.
Charlie? Charlie, are you out there?”
Charlie held his breath, made himself perfectly still.
“I know you’re there. Charlie? I know you like to hide there.”
Charlie refused to move.
“Charlie? I know you’re there.” His voice was closer. “Charlie?”
He looked up from where he was sitting and saw Gus stand-
ing over him.
“You can’t hide from big brothers.”
“Guess not. Especially big brothers who need favors.”
“Guess that’s true.” Gustavo reached over and pulled Charlie
up from the ground. “Listen, Charlie.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He looked at his brother, something about the look on his
face in the dull light shining from the front porch. “You sure. It seems like—”
344 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p
“I need a favor.”
“Sure.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet.”
“Doesn’t matter what it is.”
Gustavo smiled. “I need you to lie for me.”
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Tell me.”
“If Mom and Dad ask where I am, tell them Xochil and I
went for a walk.”
“Xochil? Where is she?”
“Look, if Mom and Dad come looking for either one of us,
just tell them that we went for a walk. It’s important. They won’t ask any questions. That’s what we do.”
Charlie nodded. “Everyone knows that.”
“Exactly.”
“But I don’t understand, Gus.”
“I’ll explain it later. I promise. Please—”
“I promise.”
“You’re not a good liar, so don’t say too much.”
“I can lie as good as you can, Gus.”
“Bullshit.”
“I can.”
“Sometimes we have to lie.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Everyone knows that.”
“It’s important.”
Charlie nodded. He didn’t like that thing in his older brother’s voice. Something new, that panic. But his face, it seemed calm.
What was it? What was happening?
“Good. Just say we’ve gone for a walk.”
“Yes,” he said. “If they ask.”
g us t avo
He could see everything from the porch of that empty house.
No one could see him, across the street and two houses down.
He could see people coming and going—mostly going now. He
didn’t know how long he’d been there—an hour, longer maybe.
He’d smoked ten cigarettes, he knew that. He’d heard it took
seven minutes to smoke a cigarette—so that was seventy min-
utes. That’s how he figured it. And there had been some time
between each cigarette—so he had been there for an hour and a
half. And Xochil had left a good half hour before he had come
out here—so she had been gone for two hours. Two hours. That
was long enough. To do what they were going to do. He hated
that, didn’t want to think about it. His sister and Jack.
That sonofabitch.
And Dad will kill you, Xochil, he’ll— He saw a car park a little up the street.
346 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p He knew it was them.
He heard his heart pounding.
For a moment, there was nothing but relief—and then he felt
the anger.
o c t av io. ch a r l ie . lourde s .
Has he disappeared again?”
Lourdes handed her husband a plate full of bizcochos. “Your sister made these. Will you take them out for me?”
“You didn’t answer my question. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy for your children?”
“And you, Octavio?” Lourdes took a deep breath. “I’m tired.
You’re tired. I don’t want to argue. I don’t want to—”
“They took a walk.”
Lourdes and Octavio stared at Charlie, who was sitting at
the kitchen table, staring at a plate of food—but not eating anything.
“When?”
“About an hour ago. You know, like the
y always do. They went
for a walk.” He looked down at his plate and picked at his food with a fork. “Don’t be mad, Dad,” he whispered.
348 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p Lourdes nudged Octavio with her elbow.
“I’m not mad, Charlie. It’s just that— Well, your brother wor-
ries me.”
“They’re just taking a walk,” he said, his face glued to the
plate of food.
“Charlie, look at me.”
He nodded and looked up at his father, tears running down
his face.
“I’m sorry. Look, son, I’m sorry.”
Lourdes nodded to herself and squeezed her husband’s hands.
Apologies didn’t come easy to him. She leaned into him and
kissed his shoulder. Then she pushed him toward Charlie.
He sat next to Charlie at the table. “Son, don’t cry.”
“No, it’s okay. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’ve been doing
it all day.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Charlie nodded.
“You’re not eating.”
“I’m hungry—but I’m not hungry. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Eat.”
He had the sudden urge to ask his father if he loved Gus. He
wanted to ask, but he was afraid of the answer. “Okay,” he said,
“I’ll eat.”
g us t avo. xo ch i l .
They were looking into each other’s faces. He was whispering
something. She was listening. The door to his car was still open as they stood there on the sidewalk.
They didn’t notice he was standing there.
He lit a cigarette, and they both looked toward him at the
small sizzling sound of the match as he struck it on the matchbook. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t tear you a new
asshole.” It was mean what he’d said—but somehow his words
lacked conviction. More like he was upset. Hurt. He’d meant to sound angry. But the anger had left him, though he didn’t know why.
“Don’t be mad,” Xochil whispered.
“Why’d you go? With him, Xochil? With him?”
“Because I had to.”
“I hate his fucking guts.”
“Gustavo, I love her.”
350 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p
“Who asked you, Jack?”