He smiled at her as he left—as if he would be back, as if he
g us t avo l 377
would see her in a few minutes, as if it were just another day, just another moment. He served himself a plate of food in the dining room, the table overflowing with the abundance of their lives. He wondered why he’d never noticed how absolutely wealthy they
were. He took the plate, stared at the food, then, when no one was looking, he opened the door to the garage and disappeared
behind it. He shut the door and took a breath. And then another.
He stared at the plate of food and placed it on his father’s work table. He thought of Xochil and Charlie—then made himself
stop. He closed his eyes, then opened them. He remembered his
father embracing his mother just as they left the cemetery. He committed that scene to memory, his father hugging his mother.
Such a beautiful thing. So much easier to remember that than to remember sad lines from books he’d read.
He saw that the garage door to the alley had been left open.
That made it easier for him; he wouldn’t have to make any noise, trying to lift the door up, wouldn’t trip on anything in the darkness of the garage. He walked to the place where he’d put his
backpack. He stared at it, his heart thumping in his chest. So this is how you left home. This is how your world ended. Quietly.
Like a thief stealing himself away. Like a criminal running from his past. He picked up his backpack—but just as he was about to put it over his shoulder, he heard a noise.
He looked up and saw his mother staring at him.
He stared back at her, but said nothing. He could hear his
heart. The thumping had become a pounding—and he felt him-
self trembling. He forced his body to be still, waited, motionless, for what seemed an eternity. He wanted to think of something
to say, but what was there to say? He was running away from
them—from her, from his house, from his family. But that wasn’t true. That wasn’t true at all. It didn’t have anything to do with them. He was walking away from a war, he was walking away
from his country. Yes, that’s what he was doing, though putting
378 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p it like that sounded so nice and neat and logical and everything seemed more scrambled than that, his thoughts, the world he
lived in, and he wished he were Conrad because Conrad could
put everything into words and construct logical, moral argu-
ments and all he could do was stand there, as inarticulate and inanimate as a rock.
He took a deep breath and then another. “You said I had to
do what I had to do.”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
He couldn’t tell what she was feeling. “Mom,” he whispered.
But that was the only word that came out. Nothing more, not
even a whole sentence, just “Mom.” He tossed the backpack over his shoulder and whispered quietly, “Mom. Walk with me.”
“I can’t,” she said.
“I wanted to tell you. I didn’t know— I just— Mom, I don’t—
Mom—”
“You didn’t know how to leave.”
“I’m doing it all wrong. I’m doing it all wrong. All wrong,
Mom— I—”
lourde s
She hated this. This watching her son struggle with himself, this battle he was fighting, hated being a witness, watching and watching this son of hers who was taking his fists out and turning them on himself, couldn’t stand it. She’d watched that look of self-doubt in every argument he’d had with her husband, in every disappointment he’d ever had, always blaming himself, always telling himself that he was all wrong, that he didn’t fit, that there was something bad about him. This was it then, her last chance to make him see that he was grace in the world, that he was hope, that he was loved, that he was beauty itself. How could she tell him that? How could she tell him that he was suffering from an uncommon and delicate decency that was dazzling beyond words?
And to hell with a world that didn’t understand what her son
was doing. To hell with them all. This is where she stood. With him. With her son.
She could not let him leave without knowing what she saw
380 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p when she looked at him—what she was seeing at this very moment. Since that evening when she’d read that letter from the
draft board she had imagined what it might mean. And yet she’d always known that it meant he had to leave. So it came to this: a boy with a backpack who looked very much like a man standing
helpless in a garage leaving his country and his family. This boy who was leaving, going back to a country they had all abandoned.
This boy standing alone.
“Listen to me.” She was whispering, yet she knew her whispers
sounded loud and desperate. “You are not doing this all wrong, amor. All your life, you have thought that. When you dropped your puppy and you slapped yourself, that is exactly what you
said. ‘I’m doing this all wrong.’ All your life you have thought less of yourself and I have watched you. I have been too silent, amor.
So now you listen to me. You listen to me. You are not doing this all wrong. You are doing this because you have a conscience, because you have a heart, because you have integrity.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I’m scared.”
“Yes, amor, you’re scared. We are all scared. All of us.”
He nodded.
“ You are not doing this all wrong.”
He looked at her.
“Say, yes, amor. Say, yes. Say you believe me.”
“I believe you,” he whispered.
She walked toward him and placed his face between her hands.
She looked at him for a long time, a camera taking a photograph.
She took a breath, took his face in one last time, kissed him—
then let him go. She combed his hair with her fingers. “Wait for your sister and your brother at the Sunset Grocery Store.”
“What?”
“Go. Wait for them.”
g us t av o. xo ch i l . ch a r l ie .
He didn’t know how long he waited, sitting at the curb of the
Sunset Grocery Store, which was closed for the afternoon in
honor of his grandmother’s funeral. There was even a sign on
the door. His mother must have known that the store would be
closed and he wondered why he thought that. Why would that
matter?
Three cigarettes. Twenty minutes. That’s how long he waited.
Then he saw them walking toward him. He waved and smiled.
They waved and smiled back.
When they reached him, they all stood there, silent, staring
at one another.
He could see that Xochil was trembling. He reached for her
hand and took it—then squeezed it. Then let it go, then squeezed it again. Then let it go. Then squeezed it again.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to keep you from trembling.”
382 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p
“Is it working?”
He shrugged.
“You were going to leave without saying good-bye.” He had
never heard that tone in Charlie’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It hurts too much.”
“That’s not a very good reason.”
“Don’t be mad, Charlie.”
“I don’t know what to be, what to say. I don’t, Gus.”
“Me neither.”
“Don’t leave us.”
Xochil shot Charlie a look.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
Gustavo smiled. “Did Mom give you in
structions?”
Charlie nodded. He looked at Xochil.
“You can’t leave this way.” She pulled her hand away from
Gustavo.
“I have to leave the only way I know how.”
“Not without saying good-bye, you bastard. You bastard.” She was crying now, and as she said the word bastard, the cruelty of the word lost its power in her sobs.
“Don’t,” he said.
He held her, and he didn’t know if it was she who was trem-
bling or if it was him. “Don’t,” he said again, “If you do this, I won’t be able to go.”
“Good.”
“You want me drafted? Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“You want me in prison?”
“No.”
“You want me in a war? You want me pointing a gun at
someone? You want someone pointing a gun at me?” He was
g us t avo. xo ch i l . charl ie . l 383
being cruel—but no matter what he said or did, it would be
cruel.
“No,” she said. “Stop it! Stop it! Don’t, don’t. You bastard.”
“I don’t know what to do, Xochil. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.”
“Stop it!” Charlie yelled. “Stop it! It can’t be this way. It’s not supposed to be this way.”
Gustavo pushed back his hair from his face and reached for his sister. “I have to go,” he whispered. “You know that.” He looked at Charlie and combed his hair with his fingers. “You know that.
You know I have to go. Just tell me you know that.”
Charlie nodded. “I know.”
“Don’t hate me for this.”
“I don’t, Gus. I promise.”
“You promise because Mom made you promise?”
“No, that’s not why.”
“We don’t hate you.” Xochil forced herself to smile.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay.”
They made their way to the Santa Fe Bridge, no hurry in their
legs or their feet. No hurry, no words.
Xochil handed Gustavo a large brown envelope. “It’s from Mom.
There’s an address and a phone number for her cousin Juan Car-
los. She said he’ll be expecting you. She’s going to get in touch with him. She said to take the bus to Mexico City, but that you had to get a visa at the bridge. She said to ask, they’ll tell you where you need to go. She’s put your birth certificate in the envelope. She said you’ll probably need it. She said you could get a visitor’s visa for six months, she said—never mind—it’s all written down. And she sent some money.”
“I don’t want money. I can’t take it. Here, let me—” He started to open the envelope.
Xochil placed her hand over his and stopped him. “She said
384 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p you’d say that. She said to tell you— What did she say?” She
looked at Charlie.
“She said that whatever money you had, it wouldn’t be
enough.” He looked at Xochil, as if to ask her something.
She nodded.
Gustavo laughed.
Xochil was glad, that he laughed.
“Did you rehearse everything? Am I in a goddamned play?”
“Yes. Your mother wrote the script and she’s the director—
and she made you the hero, so shut up.”
Charlie took the ring out of his pocket and held it out to
Gustavo. “She said for you to take this.”
Gustavo stared at the ring. “That was Grandma’s.”
Charlie nodded. “It’s worth a lot of money. Mom said you
would need it one day.”
“What would I need it for?”
“I don’t know. But Mom said you’d know when the day
came—”
“Mom doesn’t know everything. I can’t take it.”
Charlie shoved it into Gustavo’s hand. “Mom does know ev-
erything. You have to take it, Gus. We have to give Mom a full report.”
He put the ring in his pocket. He bit the side of his mouth.
“Any last instructions from Mom?”
“Whatever we forgot, she’s written down. Will you write?”
“If it’s safe.”
“Safe?”
“They’ll come looking for me.”
“Let them come, Gus.” His little brother’s voice was chang-
ing. He wouldn’t be a boy for very much longer. “Let them come, Gus, let them come looking for you. I’ll tell them you’re gone. I’ll tell them to go fuck themselves. I will, I swear I will.”
He saw the tears rolling down his sister’s face.
g us t avo. xo ch i l . charl ie . l 385
“This is serious,” he said. “Don’t tell them anything.” He
looked at Xochil. “What will she tell Dad?”
“You think she can’t handle it?”
“I just don’t want him to hate her—because of me.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Okay,” he whispered.
“You’re going to worry, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you weren’t a worrier. I thought that was Charlie’s job.”
“Everybody worries.”
They stood there, the three of them, on the sidewalk, people
all around them.
“I have to go.”
“Smoke a cigarette, Gus. Before you go.”
Gustavo smiled. “Sure.” He took a cigarette and lit it.
“Can I have one too?”
He looked at his little brother. “You know how?”
“I’ve been practicing.”
“Practicing.”
“I bought a pack at Rexall’s after school.”
“They sold them to you?”
“I buy Dad’s cigarettes there all the time.”
Xochil laughed. “I’ll take one too.”
They sat on the curb and smoked. When they finished their
cigarettes, they put them out on the concrete and stepped on
them.
They stood there, inches from the Santa Fe Bridge.
The world had ended.
There was only the three of them.
Three small names on the map of the world.
Xochil held Gustavo for a long time. She let him go when she
was sure the tears had gone away. She looked into his eyes one
386 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p last time. Eyes as black as a perfect night. “One day, there won’t be any wars,” she said, “and there won’t be any countries.”
“Sure,” Gustavo said. “Sure.”
Charlie leaned into his brother. He remembered the promise
he’d made to his mother. This is so hard for Gustavo, amor. Don’t make it harder. Promise me. He let his brother go. “The next time I see you, I’ll be bigger than you.”
Gustavo kissed them. Adios. Adios. He turned and disappeared into the crowd that was walking across the bridge.
Xochil and Charlie took each other by the hand. They stood
there on the sidewalk, at the entrance to the bridge, but did not move.
“He won’t be there when we go home.”
“No, he won’t be there, Charlie.”
“Maybe he will be. Maybe we’ll go home—and he’ll be
there.”
“No, Charlie. He won’t be there.” She held her breath as she
watched Charlie fall to his knees on the sidewalk. He hugged
himself and shook as he howled out his grief to the deaf and
dispassionate sky.
adam
Da Nang, Vietnam, September 21, 1967
Today, you wake.
You have a roof over your head. That expression has never
meant so much.
You open your eyes, then shut them. You know you will run
&
nbsp; your dream over in your mind, a game you have begun to play to distract you from the rain.
Your eyes still closed, you listen for the sound. The rain. It is there like the beating of a distant drum. You open your eyes, shut them. Open them, shut them. And then you run your dream:
Your mother is arguing with your father. You cannot hear what
she is saying but you know she is angry. Your father is lying on the couch, smoking a cigarette, drinking a beer. He throws the beer can at her, the beer pouring out into the room, onto your mother’s dress. You see the anger on her face, the sadness, the brokenness.
And then you walk into the room. Your father is gone. Your
388 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p mother smiles at you. You smile back. You walk out into the sunlight, and the El Paso sky is as blue and cloudless and beautiful as it has ever been. You watch yourself as you breathe in the dry desert air. You stare out into the desert mountains and then you find yourself at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. You are in the confession-al, telling the priest you are sorry for your sins. I hated my father.
I hated him. The priest is kind and asks you if you are suffering.
Yes, Father, I am suffering. I have been suffering all my life. And then you are standing in the communion line and the same priest gives you the body of Christ. Amen.
And then you see yourself walking through the streets of El
Paso. Up ahead, you see a girl. You know that girl. The sun is shining through her black hair. Her hazel eyes turn green. She smiles at you and for a moment you are both bathed in light. You whisper her name: Xochil. She whispers yours: Adam. And then everything changes, and you are in the jungle, the rain pouring down on you and you hear the sound of a spring as you step and a bomb blows up in front of you and then you find yourself in a coffin underground. You light a cigarette and see that you are lying next to your father.
You open your eyes. You take a breath. You sit up on your
rack. You reach for your cigarettes. Yes, Father, I am suffering.
lourde s
You wait. For them. On the front steps. Wait. For Xochil and
Charlie. You have been sitting here for half an hour, perhaps longer, standing up to embrace your guests as they leave, thanking them for their presence, for their kindness, for their thoughtful-ness, for their flowers, for their food, for their prayers.
A few people remain inside the house and you are beginning
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