Let Their Spirits Dance (2 page)

A souped-up Malibu with a muffler that sounds like a motorcycle pulls up into the driveway of the shiftless renters next door. A man opens the door and creeps out.

“I see a guy getting out of a car next door.”

“Never mind about him,” Mom says, exasperated that I don't see anything else. “They come and go at that house all night long.”

Cholo is standing in the spot where the passion vine used to grow, barking at me as I look out the window.

“Stop, you mangy dog!” The dog runs around in a half circle and barks toward the chain link fence, cringes, snarls, barks again.

“What's wrong with the dog?”

“He sees Jesse's spirit. Los animales see the spirit world.”

Cholo's barking gets all the dogs in the neighborhood going. One by one, the dogs start barking, some louder, some softer, until an eerie howl sounds, and the last dog stops barking.

“This is spooky.”

Mom is insistent. “Do you see my mijito? Is he wearing his uniform?”

“No, Mom, I don't see Jesse.” I'm looking hard, scanning the dark, expecting what?

“I heard his voice tonight. Jesse's voice!”

“You were dreaming.”

“No! My eyes were open. I could barely hear him, but it was him talking to someone—other men. Voices. He promised me, don't you remember, Teresa, promised me at the airport that I would hear his voice again!”

“Con calma, Mom. Calm down. Jesse said all kinds of things. He said we'd read about him in a book, too.”

“If only I had listened harder. I don't know what he was trying to tell me.” My mother bursts into tears. The curtain slips from her hand. Cholo stops barking and is now whimpering. A solitary dog barks in the distance, then stops.

“Ay, he's leaving!” Mom turns and walks slowly back to bed, holding on to my arm. Suddenly, she is weak again, frail. I help her lie down, easing her head back on the pillow. She's crying, her shoulders heaving with every sob. I take a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and hand it to her, switching on the lamp. In the light, I notice her face is flushed. I put my hand on her forehead, and it feels warm. I know the pain in her legs is excruciating, but she's stubborn and won't take prescribed pain pills. I'm wondering if I should call Dr. Mann and tell him Mom's hallucinating. There's a part of me that wants to think this whole thing is a nightmare and I'll wake up soon.

“Ay, Teresa, your face looks horrible! You need to see a doctor.”

“Don't worry about my face. You feel hot. Do your lungs hurt?” I look closely at her for signs of the weariness I've come to identify as the pneumonia she's battled with twice this winter.

“Mom, you were dreaming. Go to sleep.”

“No! I heard your brother's voice.”

“Why would Jesse be waking you up?” I play inside my mother's head. It's no use trying to force reality. The real and the invisible are clouds my mother moves in and out of without noticing the difference. She looks matter-of-factly at me.

“Why would anyone wake me up at night? Jesse has something to tell me. Him and his friends.”

“Friends?”

“Voices…” She searches the dark again, straining to hear.

“What were they saying?” I ask her.

“Who knows? They were whispering! Ay, Santo Niño help me!” she cries. “What is it I have to do?” She looks over at the image of El Santo Niño and tears start again. I brush them off her face and feel I'm the mother, and she's the child. I'm wondering if Elsa, my oldest daughter, will someday feel the same way about me. She'll look at me and think I'm crazy for waking her up in the middle of the night.

“Something in my chest is heavy, mija. There's something I have to do.”

Since Jesse's death, my mother feels all her pain in her breastbone. It travels through the center of her chest and meets in her back between her shoulder blades. She holds on to the pain with one hand.

“Don't think about it. You need to rest.”

“How can I rest when there's something I have to do? Didn't you hear anything?” She holds my hand and listens one more time. The action makes me cock my head to listen, too. If only I could hear my
brother's voice, now, in this house! I would cup my hand around it and seal it forever into the grooves of plaster on the walls.

“Do you think Jesse forgave me? Ay, mijito! He suffered so much for me, que pena! Why didn't I throw your father out?” She sits up and starts coughing, gasping for air.

“Mom, stop accusing yourself! You're making yourself sick.” I pat her back and give her a drink of water.

“Is the room warm enough for you?” I look over at the orange coils of the electric heater. “It's so cold in this house! Just like my dad to go off and die and never fix anything.”

“It doesn't matter, mija. The other world is catching up to me anyway, just think, I might have to put up with your father and Consuelo after I die. God knows, I should have buried their bones together!”

“They're probably in Hell, Mom. You'll never see them.”

“Maybe I will, and maybe I won't. God knows what He will do with those two. May they rest in peace, even though they never gave me any peace!” She touches my aching face gently. “See, here's my nightmare…your face, to tell me I should have left your father years ago. Why didn't I fight them both? That's why Jesse went to Vietnam. He couldn't stand it anymore! Will my son ever forgive me?”

“Mom, he's forgiven you. Stop this! Look at me. Do you think I'm proud of what happened tonight? Mom, it was wrong, but I lost control. I've kept things inside for so long, and Jesse's part of it, too.”

“You remind me of your nana. Remember how she argued with Consuelo at church? Can you imagine…and on the day of Our Lady! Ay que mi ma! Here, let me help you, mija. I have medicine in the kitchen, peroxide.”

“No. Mom, you need to rest. I'll get the medicine. Don't worry, I'll rest, too, in my old room.”

“What about the kids? And Ray, mija. Are you leaving him?”

“For good this time, Mom. I'll talk to the kids tomorrow. Cisco's been wanting me to leave his dad for a long time. Lisa and Lilly are only fourteen. They're so young to be going through all this. And Elsa—well, she'll be mad at me.”

“Elsa's closest to Ray. Es su consentida. Remember how he cried when she was born? She's always defended her dad.”

“Just like I did sometimes.”

“Did you want me to leave your dad?”

“Mom, that was a long time ago. Stop making yourself miserable.” As I say the words, the phone starts ringing.

“It's Ray, already,” Mom says.

Will this night ever end? I glance at a picture of St. Rita hanging in the hall as I make my way to the phone. St. Rita, the saint for desperate cases. St. Rita's face has the pious look of someone in deep suffering. She was famous for putting up with her cruel husband. So great was her love for Christ's passion that she asked to suffer in the same way he had. In answer to her prayer, a thorn from Christ's crown struck her on the forehead and caused her terrible pain until the day she died. Imagine wanting to suffer! I brush my forehead with my hand, probably the only spot on my face that doesn't hurt. I'm far from wanting a thorn stuck in it. St. Rita won Heaven for all her troubles. The only thing I feel I'm winning for my troubles is Hell.

I grab the wall phone and hear Ray shouting on the other end. “Thanks for the big scene you made at the club. The manager canceled my contract! What a bitch!”

“Canceled it? You liar! You'll be playing there next weekend with Sandra at your side. Don't give me that shit!”

“If you'd listen…” I slam the phone down and unplug it from the wall. Ray always accused me of not listening to him. In my mind, he never listened to me. I never told Ray the dream about my left ear, and the fact that tonight I was listening in the dark for voices my mother says she heard. I've never told Ray any of my dreams. I tried a few times, and he only half-listened as if he was hearing a news report he didn't care about. There are tears at the corners of my eyes, brimming over, falling down my face, stinging the swollen, cut places.

I open the kitchen door and Cholo runs up to me, wagging his tail and jumping on my legs. Cholo's ears are pointed straight up and look like the tips of my mother's pruning shears. He's furry like an Alaskan husky and short like a cocker spaniel. His fur is the color of straw except for a white
x
on his chest that looks like the work of an artist's paintbrush. I remember Duke and the melancholy swish of his tail, slow-moving Duke who lived to be a hundred in dog years. Cholo's jumping, sniffing at my legs. “Down boy, get down!” He runs to the oleander bushes growing against the back fence and starts barking again.

“You're not Duke! You didn't even know Jesse!” I'm shivering, trying to stop my teeth from chattering. It's dark, just like the mornings after Jesse's death. I still can't believe the passion vine bloomed until November the year he died.

“Jesse?” I whisper his name. A breeze blows through the pink rayon bathrobe.

“Mom's sick, Jesse. And look at me. Ain't I a sight for sore eyes! Ray and Sandra. You remember Consuelo? Well, like mother, like daughter. I've got Sandra.” I taste tears dribbling down my swollen lip. I do a pantomime in the dark, searching for the invisible with my hand. Pretending I've found Jesse's hand, I hold on tight until my knuckles turn white. I look up at the sky. Clouds are huge ink spots floating overhead. Everything is quiet. Whatever was out there is gone. I hear a gunshot go off in the distance, once, twice. It scares Cholo, and he howls. Welcome back to El Cielito, the place I said I'd only come back to visit. Jesse would be surprised to know the old neighborhood sounds like Vietnam these days with everybody owning a gun.

I walk by Mom's room on my way to bed. She's wide awake. The glow from the veladoras makes her look ghostly.

“Did you find the peroxide? And ice, mija, don't forget an ice pack. All this trouble, but Ray will get what he deserves. Remember all the bad things your father went through. Sandra will never compare to you, mija. Ray will regret all this, le va poder. Try to sleep now. Jesse will keep his promise.”

I want to ask her what promise he'll keep, but don't say anything. After all these years, Mom doesn't know I kept Jesse's secret, like St. Rita's thorn lodged deep in my flesh. Mom's voice sounds far away to me.

“El Santo Niño will let me know what all this means in the morning.” I look at the image of the Christ Child and wonder what
His
voice sounds like.

E
l Cielito passes by as we ride down Buckeye Road to Sky Harbor Airport, the first week of January, 1968. Nana's sitting in the front seat between Mom and Dad. Jesse's sitting in the back between me and Priscilla with Paul on his lap. Paul's nine years old and Mom says he's too big to sit on Jesse's lap. Dad grunts and says there's nowhere to put him, unless he sits in the back of the station wagon on top of Jesse's baggage.

Jesse's dark like my dad and not much taller than me. He was always a skinny kid who wore plaid shirts to make his chest look broader. His shoulders eventually filled out and toned up when he got into boxing. His eyebrows are two smooth, straight lines, not shaggy ones like Dad's. When he talks, his voice fits into my ear like a seashell.

“Just think, Los Tres Reyes are delivering gifts at the house right now,” Nana says. “We'll have to open them later and mail yours to you, mijo,” she tells Jesse. It's Nana's way of trying to make us smile.

“Yeah, the Three Kings,” Jesse says. “I forgot about them…sure, Nana, mail them to me.”

The morning is cold, dark, looks like rain, or maybe it's tears starting. I don't know if what I'm doing now is part of Jesse's funeral or his welcome home.

Ol' man Perez is sitting outside his dry-cleaning shop on a lawn
chair. He looks like a mannequin wearing a Stetson hat he dry-cleans once a year.

“The cheapskate,” Dad says.

“Pobrecito,” Mom says. “How old is he anyway?”

“Who knows. He's been there a hundred years.”

“Wasn't his daughter a little run-around, una cabroncita who went after anything in pants?” Nana asks. I know she's giving my dad una in-directa, talking about Consuelo without really saying her name. Dad says nothing, just keeps his hands on the steering wheel.

“She's married,” says my mom.

“No!” says Nana. She says the word like it's a big joke.

There's El Rancho Drive-in, where you can chain your car up to a speaker and watch the latest thriller. Guys with cars are the lucky ones. They get to take their girlfriends to the old El Rancho, nicknamed El Rancho Grande, and fake watching the movie. All they really want is to make out and find out how far they can go. It's pretty easy to tell who's gone too far. The girlfriend drops out of school and pretty soon we see her working at Woolworth's so she can make enough money to pay for diapers and formula, and if there hasn't been a shotgun wedding, her boyfriend is back at El Rancho Grande with another girl.

Neighborhood kids stand on rooftops and watch the movies all night. They make up dialogues and jump from rooftop to rooftop looking for the best angle to watch the movie. Chicano spidermen, they have the cartoons memorized. On nights when the moon is full, they play astronaut and fake a landing on the moon. Below them, the grown-ups sit on lawn chairs, sipping beer or Kool-Aid and talking about the time a big canal flowed right where the middle row of speakers now stands. It's a wonder, they say, that the speakers don't electrocute everybody, for sure there's water down there.

“What's showing?” Jesse asks. “Hey, what? What does it say?”

He really wants to know. I stoop low to watch the marquee from the window of my father's Ford wagon. “Huh, D-A-R-K, oh,
Dark Shadows
!” I tell him.

“Gotta see it when I get back,” he says and smiles. “Relax, sis, relax.”

The Golden Gate Gym is up ahead. The building looks wet in places where the paint is discolored. The door isn't open yet. I can't see the ring where Jesse used to box. I remember the sour smell of boxing gloves and tennis shoes.

“Didn't those guys ever wash their feet?”

“Some of them didn't even have soap to wash them in,” Jesse says,
“Oh, by the way, tell Trini I'm gonna kick his butt when I get back. He won't mess with a sarge!” Then he laughs. “Love that ol' man. He sure got me some good fights.”

“What good fights?” Mom asks. “What about that scar from Andres El Animal?”

“It was a fair fight, Ma.”

“Can I touch it, Jesse?” Paul asks. “Go ahead.” Paul traces the faint outline over Jesse's left eyebrow with his finger. El Animal's handiwork when Jesse was El Gato and boxed featherweight in the Golden Gloves.

Pete's Fish ‘n' Chips is whizzing by, but it's closed until eleven o'clock. “Gee, and I wanted some fish and chips,” Jesse says.

“After all those tamales last night?” Priscilla asks.

“Yeah. Wish I could wrap those tamales and take them with me to Nam, Baby Doll.”

Priscilla smiles because Jesse still calls her Baby Doll, even though she's a freshman in high school.

“I'll send you some at Christmas, mijito,” Nana says from the front. She keeps looking at Jesse in the back seat through the rearview mirror. Jesse waves to her. “Hi, Nana, Hi! Love that little viejita!” He reaches over and rubs her neck. Mom grabs his hand and kisses it, turning around as far as she can to see him dressed in his Army green. “You look so handsome, mijo. Don't let those big gabachos run you over. You know how those white guys can be.”

“Nah, Ma, I got lots of friends in there, besides Chris. We all have the same thing to do so we gotta stick together.”

“Did Armando get back from Vietnam?” Dad asks.

“Who, Betty's son? Quien?” Mom asks.

“Yeah, he did,” I say. “I talk to his sister at school.”

“Was he Army?”

“No,” Jesse says, “Air Force.”

“Just what I told you, Jesse. The Air Force is the best. That's how I made it through World War II. We blasted the hell out of 'em before the Army even got there.”

Jesse sighs. “Yeah Dad, you told me.” I see my dad's jaw set squarely down. He won't fight now. I know that. There's too much in the air, there's no room.

“Remember when the people went out to the train station to say good-bye to the men going off to World War II?” Mom asks.

“They would light fires all night long waiting for the trains to come in,” Nana says. “Everybody hugged everybody and women gave La
Oración Del Justo Juez, the prayer of the Just Judge, to the men for protection.”

“You were there, Alicia,” Dad says, “to say good-bye to me. Remember the song?”

“What song?” I ask Mom.

“‘Sentimental Journey,'” Mom says. “We all sang that song. Everybody was sentimental back then, even people who didn't have men leaving for the war.”

“Nobody sang it like your mom,” Dad says. “I left with her voice right here.” He points to his heart. Mom looks over at Dad. Nana shrugs her shoulders.

“Sing it, Mom,” Paul says.

“Maybe later…later.”

“When I get back,” Jesse says. He looks at me. “What's Armando's sister's name, Teresa?”

“You mean Annie?”

“Yeah, Annie. She's cute. Tell her to write to me.”

“Espi's gonna write to you.”

“Espi's your friend. I've known her all my life.”

“Didn't her brother Ray come back from Vietnam?” Mom asks.

“He just got back three weeks ago. He's starting up his band again.”

“You're blushing,” Jesse teases.

“Why? I don't like Ray. He's too old!”

“Yeah, right!”

“Was he Air Force?” Dad asks.

“He was Army.”

“He should have gone Air Force.”

“Write to us, Jesse,” Mom says, “every day if you can, mijo.” Her voice trembles. Both women start crying.

“What is this? Both of you quit it!” Jesse puts one hand on Nana's shoulder and one on Mom's.

Nana starts a wail, “Ay mijito…Ay Dios, why didn't you stay in college? You're so smart!”

“Don't start, Mama,” Mom says.

“La Oración Del Justo Juez. Do you have it, mijo?” Nana asks.

“Yep.”

“Keep it in your pocket. Don't forget the prayer. God will protect you. Your enemies won't even see you. Porque la guerra? I don't even know any Vietnamese. Why do you have to go there?”

“I'm patriotic, Nana…listen,
Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light
…” Jesse sings the first line of the “Star Spangled Banner.” “This is one Chicano they'll remember, you'll see. I'll make up for all those guys who've been blown away.”

Mom and Nana cry louder.

“Bad timing,” I tell him.

“It'll be OK, Mom,” Jesse says, trying to raise his voice above the crying. “Look, there's Herrera School.”

“Ya, mujer, quit it, will you?” Dad says to Mom. “I met him—Sylvestre Herrera himself. He won the Medal of Honor in World War II. A great man.”

“Their baseball team was good, but ours was better,” Jesse says. “We beat them so many times in baseball, remember, Teresa? Chris went there when he first came to Phoenix, then he got some sense into his head and went to Lowell with us. Knucklehead. It took him a while. Remember that game I pitched, a no-hitter, those escamones were terrified. They had never seen such lightning hands.”

Jesse grabs Paul in a bear hug, and they both laugh.

“Chris wanted to dance with you last night, Teresa, but you acted all pesetuda, like you didn't give a damn about him. I told him, Ah she's just a snotty cheerleader, thinks she's got enough guys to throw up in the air.”

“You didn't!”

“Chris drinks too much,” Mom says, blowing her nose on a tissue.

“Just last night, Ma. You know how that goes. The vato's cool.”

“You don't like him, Teresa?”

“Maybe I do and maybe I don't.”

“He wants you to write to him.”

“I'll think about it. He's too good-looking for his own good. Every girl wants him.”

“I wish I had that curse,” Jesse says, laughing. Then he leans over to me and whispers, “I don't think I'm coming back, Teresa. Take care of Mom.”

I feel as if someone just plunged a needle into my arm.

“What?”

“What's wrong, Teresa?” Nana asks. She catches a glimpse of my face in the rearview mirror. “You look like you just saw the devil.”

“Nothing,” I answer. My hands turn cold.

Jesse wrestles with Paul as if he didn't say a thing to me, both of them laughing. He puts one finger up to his lips for me to see.

“Hey, guess what, everybody,” he says out loud. “Someday I'm gonna be famous. You're gonna read about me in a book. I'm gonna make history!”

“Really, mijo?” Mom asks. The crying turns to sniffles.

I pull Jesse's sleeve. “You'll be back!” I whisper, trying not to attract Nana's attention. He whispers back, “I don't think so, play it by ear.” I want to scream,
Dad, stop the car and let me out, NOW. I can't take this anymore
. I press Jesse's hand into mine. “Yes, you
will
.” I insist. I know what he wants. This is a secret I have to keep.

“Your hand is cold.” He squeezes my hand, warming it up in his own.

“Yeah, Ma, I'll be famous, you just watch.”

We all laugh because nothing is real. We don't even know what the inside of the airport looks like. We've never been there. Everybody we know lives in Arizona. We're on our way to St. Anthony's, or to the Japanese Gardens to get my mother some sweet peas.

“How far is Vietnam?” Paul asks.

“On the other side of the world, what do you think?” Jesse says. “The people walk upside down. That's why they wear those cone hats, to keep themselves balanced!” We all laugh, like it's the funniest joke in the world, even Dad.

We're passing the Smitty's Jesse and I rode our bikes to on Sundays just to get a Coke from the machine. The Black Canyon Freeway loops to the south of the store, just a few feet away from Food City, the cheapest place in town to buy food. It's seven o'clock in the morning; traffic is picking up. The sun is climbing over the freeway, making the day come alive.

My dad brakes at the stoplight, and we see Tortuga crossing the street.

“Roll the window down, Teresa. I gotta say bye to Tortuga.” Jesse shouts through the open window, “Hey, hey Tortuga, don't you know me ese?”

Tortuga is wearing a fatigue jacket over a pair of Levi's. He looks every bit a turtle with his neck sunk into the collar of his jacket. The green jacket looks like a shell over his scrawny back. He's got on army boots with no shoelaces. He walks up to the window and looks in. Tortuga's face is inches away from mine. His breath smells like a stopped-up sink.

“Buenos dias! Look at this, the whole Ramirez family! How's everybody today?”

“What's with the fatigue jacket, Tortuga?” Jesse asks. “I'm the one going to Nam.”

“Orale, Jesse, you really headed for Nam?”

“Check out my rags. Where'd you get your jacket?”

“My nephew, you know Leo, he's over there. He sent it to me.”

“You mean Leito? The little kid? I thought he was only seventeen.”

“Naw, Jesse, he turned eighteen and enlisted.”

“I'll be damned.”

“Hey, Jesse, do me a favor. Tell him his mom is going to pieces over here watching the news. He better come home quick before she does herself in…. You got a couple of dollars on you, Jesse? My ol' lady threw me out on the streets last night, esa vieja pinche!”

“Don't cuss at your wife, Tortuga,” Nana says. “She's a good woman.”

“She's a little devil, Abuela, you don't know her.”

“Here.” Jesse pulls a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket. “Take it, buy some food for Mauricio.”

“Muchos thank-yous Jesse, you were always the best! Hey, man, don't forget El Cielito, OK? Come back to us, hermanito.” Tortuga's eyes fill with tears. He walks around the car and starts running down the sidewalk.

“Can't wait to get his bottle of wine,” Dad says.

“Pobre,” Mom says. “His son Mauricio must cost him a fortune. He weighs about 200 pounds! Can you imagine? Tortuga drinks his life away, and his son eats himself to death! What a pair!”