Let Their Spirits Dance (24 page)

Everything has an appetite, Don Florencío always said. I'm understanding appetite the longer I stare at Chris. This never happened to me with Ray. Ray was the one who unwound the bandages I wrapped my soul in after Jesse died. Once my soul was free again, there was nothing else for Ray to do. The Guadalupanas sense how things are between Chris and me. They're old women who led strange love lives. I don't know if they ever got excited or went to bed with no underwear. It's almost blasphemous to think these thoughts about them when I see them sitting in the back seat, dressed in their old ladies' clothes, their gold medallions shining on their flat chests. Then I see Irene whispering to Mom, and I don't think they're talking about La Virgen.

Yellowhair's mother tells me she got her name from a missionary who lived on the reservation. Her mother named her after the first person who walked into their house after her daughter's birth. “I'm glad it wasn't a man,” she says, “or I would be Samson instead of Sarah!” Her son was named Yellowhair because his grandfather had a dream the night before his birth of a stalk of corn with a child's face on it. He figured his grandson wanted to be named Yellowhair in honor of the cornstalk.

Now we really look like a United Nations entourage. Gates and Queta found an African flag at a souvenir shop and now that's sticking
out the side of Willy's car, flapping in rhythm to the Chinese flag. I didn't realize the South African colors are red, white, and blue like the U.S. flag. The Chinese flag is solid red with yellow stars on one end. The flags wave together as we travel, U.S., Mexican, Chinese, South African, making bold splashes of color everywhere we go. Gates bought a book on Nelson Mandela and suddenly claims an allegiance to South Africa. He says he'll finish reading the book before we get to the Wall.

Queta would have gone with us to the Wall, but her mother went into one of her dizzy spells, and she had to stay home. I'm wondering if her mother's dizzy spell is the way Doña Hermina keeps Queta home. Gates promised he'd stay in touch by phone. I'm hoping he's staying in touch with Erica, too. I don't want her appearing in D.C. unexpectedly.

Yellowhair is displaying two feathered wands on their gray Toyota van. One is blue for the Sun Father, the other is yellow for the Moon Mother. He says the Zuñis were never conquered by the Spaniards, or anyone else for that matter. Fray Marcos de Niza, the Spanish missionary, believed the Zuñi villages were the fabled Seven Cities of Cibola, the cities of gold. His famous guide, Esteban, was killed at Zuñi for his big mouth and insulting ways. Other Spanish explorers stayed clear of the Zuñis, once they discovered the Indians didn't take much to strangers.

Yellowhair and Sarah look more like siblings than mother and son. Their brown faces are smooth, almost wrinkle-free. I can't tell if they ever squint in the bright sun, or frown when they're angry. I look closely at them, and wonder who else will join us.

 

• T
HE NIGHT BEFORE
we leave Albuquerque I have another one of my Río Salado dreams. This time I see Jesse's body coming home in an airplane, flying over the Pacific. The plane has a single engine like the kind used in World War I. The bottom of the airplane opens and his coffin drops into the sea. It's so real, I feel the water splash on my face. I jump on his coffin, as if I'm riding on El Ganso's neck and nearly fall off when I see the lid open just a crack and blood ooze down the side of the coffin and into the sea. I wake up trying to save myself from falling into the sea. The dream reminds me of my baby sister, Inez. I'm running away from her again. I never meant to give my mother el susto, the fear that caused Inez's death.

O
n our way out of Albuquerque, I spot a sign on a local church, a framed wooden structure sandwiched between a residential home and a parking lot overgrown with weeds:
PARE DE SUFRIR
(Stop Suffering). I point it out to Chris.

“See, they want us to stop suffering.”

“How?” he asks. “Suffering is in our bones. It's the fatalism of the Indians. The Indians are selfish about suffering. They've made an art of it.”

“Why does it appeal to them?”

“You mean why does it appeal to us? We're Indian, too. I guess we've done it so long, been oppressed so many years, we're fish out of water without it. There's beauty in it, too. How would we know joy if we didn't suffer? There would be no measuring rod.”

I hadn't thought about that. Stoicism, silence, and laughter belong to those who know both joy and suffering. Hiding from suffering will not make it go away. Native Americans are wise to make it a part of life. It's there whether we like it or not, an ongoing Purgatory that keeps us reaching for grace, a bit confused, unsure why we're suffering in the first place. Hell's suffering, I imagine, is jagged pain with no end in sight. Our suffering is jagged pain with a purpose. We know we'll come to the end of it and learn something.

We pass through New Mexico's capital, Santa Fe, a city of classic
colonial architecture and vivid colors created by the mingling of Spanish and Indian blood. History is alive here. Spirits inhabit stone and mortar, luring tourists to come closer, to touch and feel the world they knew. Beauty becomes a coveted souvenir. Visitors buy it in the form of trinkets and works of art they can pack into their luggage.

The Guadalupanas are talking about stopping at Chimayó, which is not far from Santa Fe, to see el santuario with a miraculous little well, known as el posito, in one of the chapels. Chris says a man named Don Bernardo Abeyta saw a light shining on the ground during Holy Week around the hills of Potrero sometime during the early 1800s. He was a member of the penitentes, like Chris's dad. As the story goes, he saw a light shining near one of the hills close to the Santa Cruz River one night when he was out performing penances. He dug in the dirt with his bare hands and found a crucifix. He called the neighbors together to venerate the crucifix with him.

The local priest took the crucifix twice to the church at Santa Cruz, but each time the crucifix returned miraculously to the hole in which Don Bernardo had found it. They ended up building a church at Chimayó to house it. Chris says the church is a humble structure that hasn't changed much since the time of Don Bernardo Abeyta. It is surrounded by a rural community of small farms and winding roads that resist the march of progress. The sacred posito in the church is never empty of holy dirt. Visitors take and take from the hole, and still there is more to take. Some people claim to be healed at Chimayó, and to prove a healing, they will often leave behind crutches, canes, and other items related to their illness. Another attraction for the Guadalupanas was the fact that there is a chapel to El Santo Niño de Atocha in the same location, and they wanted to go pay their respects. Chris tells me there are shoes left there for El Niño by people who claim that He walks to the homes of the faithful at night and wears out His shoes.

“How can anybody believe all this?” I ask him.

“There's so much history here, so many stories, that I think people say things to keep their faith growing.”

“Do
you
believe all this?” When I ask him the question it reminds me of Holly Stevens looking into my eyes, asking me if I believed in Aztlán.

“Personally, I think it's superstition, but then again, half the time scientists don't know what they're talking about either, and they're supposed to know the facts.”

That puts me back to square one. Nobody has any straight answers.
I convince my mother that we can't go to Chimayó, or to the miraculous stairs in Santa Fe built for the Sisters of Loretto supposedly by a mysterious stranger, whom the nuns claim was St. Joseph, the carpenter. The stairs were built so the nuns could climb up to the choir loft. I ask Chris if he's seen the stairs.

“Seen them three times,” he says. “Amazing. Two 360-degree turns with no supporting pole through the center! Now that one really makes me think. I can't figure how anyone working alone with a few tools could have created such a thing, but there they are for all the world to see. Experts say the whole thing should have crashed to the ground a century ago. Then, the man who constructed the staircase never even waited to get paid.”

Lisa and Lilly are pressuring me to take them to see the stairs. They have images of themselves flying down the banisters.

“You won't be able to,” Chris tells them. “The whole area is roped off.”

I look back at Mom and Irene sitting in the back seat. Their faces are like Lisa and Lilly's—fresh-looking, wanting to see something nobody can explain, to cheat a little and get closer to Heaven.

 

• W
E TRAVEL UP
I-25 and stop at Raton, New Mexico, to buy some groceries. The name is amusing. I don't know too many towns named for a rodent, the rat. The smell of a small town gets stuck in your nose like incense. The place is beautiful. A light drizzle of rain makes the hills surrounding Raton look misty. In the distance, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains tower over the countryside, deep purple, stately.

As we walk into the store, I look back to make sure the Guadalupanas are OK. They have refused to walk out in the rain, claiming the rain will cause us all to catch frío, cold air that settles in different spots of the body and causes cramps and pain. Michael and Angelo are whipping around the store with a grocery cart, loading up on packages of corn nuts, sunflower seeds, Squeeze-Its and everything else that makes it impossible for them to sit still. Cisco's walking behind them, flirting with the girls from Raton, pretending he doesn't really know Michael and Angelo.

One of the package boys asks me if we're the family on the Internet who's traveling to the Vietnam Wall.

“My dad's a Vietnam vet,” he says. “He saw your web page on the Internet.” He calls another package boy over, “Hey, Scott, here's the
family my dad was talking about the other night. They won about two million dollars from the government!”

“Actually, it was only ninety thousand,” I tell him. “We didn't win it, they owed it to us.”

“Where's your mom?” asks the first package boy, whose name, I find out, is Jeffrey. “Nana…is that what you call her?”

“No, her name's not Nana! That word means grandmother in Spanish. She's in the van outside. She's not feeling well.”

“Can I meet her?” I tell him they can both meet her and her friend. The boys start packaging our groceries and refuse to allow anyone else to help them. Jeffrey says he wants to tell his dad he packaged food for the Ramirez family. Lisa and Lilly are standing close by and the two boys are doing all they can to keep their eyes off the girls and to finish packaging the food. Before long, several people gather around us, talking about the Wall. One lady says it's like going to church.

“You'll feel like praying, after you get through the tears,” she says.

“Everybody should go there,” says the girl who's checking us out. “A once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

The store manager comes over, a robust, red-faced man with a quick smile. He asks if we are the Ramirez family. Manuel tells him we are, and he asks if we wouldn't mind waiting for the news people to get to the store. They'd like to take pictures of us with the store personnel.

“These things don't happen in Raton every day. Your mother is teaching us all about faith,” he says. “And I understand that she heard voices?”

“What voices?” I ask him.

“That's what the news report said. Your mom heard voices calling her to the Wall.”

“Well, it might have been a dream.”

“I don't think so. When my mother died a few years ago, I swear I heard her voice a couple of times. Don't you believe the supernatural world can send us messages?”

I look across the store's aisles, and notice at least twenty people gathering around us.

“Don't you believe in supernatural occurrences?” the manager asks me again.

“Well, of course, I believe in invisible forces. I wouldn't be on this trip if I didn't.”

Michael walks up to me with Cisco. “Parallel universes,” he says. “Other worlds that reverberate one thin line away from ours. That's what
we're experiencing. There's lots of things we don't know anything about.”

“Is this the young man who set up the web page?” the manager asks.

“That's me,” Michael says.

“Well, congratulations on such a great idea!” As the manager finishes his sentence, two newsmen come in with a camera and a huge lamp they shine in our direction. “Here they are, come in, gentlemen. Yes, the Ramirezes are visiting our humble store!” The camera lens sweeps over all of us.

“Anything you'd like to say—any of you? Teresa, Priscilla, Paul, Manuel, Michael…and who else? We know your names by now,” one of the newsmen says.

Paul answers. “We're doing what my mom wants, heading for the Wall. The money, all that doesn't really matter to us. What's important is getting to the Wall so Mom can keep her promise. But there's a problem.”

“A problem?”

“Yeah. Jesse's not with us. This should be a family vacation, but it's not. We never had a family vacation, we were too busy surviving, and now that we have this money, we're still not on vacation. Nothing can make up for the death of my brother—or anybody else's brother, for that matter.”

Chris looks at Paul. “I think Jesse was right,” he whispers to me.

“I've never seen Paul like this,” I tell him.

I look out the windows and see Gates on the phone. I wonder if he's calling Queta or Erica, or even Kamika. We end our talk with the newsmen, and walk out to our vehicles, followed by the manager and the newsmen. The drizzle has turned into a light rain, slanting through sunlight. My mom would say the does are bearing their young in the forest when it rains like that. Before we reach the van, the rain stops. I introduce Jeffrey and Scott to the Guadalupanas. At first, the boys are surprised to see the two old Doñas. I don't know what they were expecting. They're courteous and shake the old ladies' hands. They are two blond, blue-eyed boys making contact with two matriarchs from another world.

“God bless you both,” my mother says, and to Jeffrey she says, “Tell your father I'm glad he came back from Vietnam, because today I met you, his son.” Jeffrey is moved by this and raises my mom's hand to his lips.

“That kid's a real charmer,” Chris says.

“My mom loves it,” I tell him.

The manager introduces himself to Mom. “I'm Emery Billings, Mrs. Ramirez. I was telling your daughter here that I believe you heard the voices. Why shouldn't you? I heard my mother after she died.”

“The voices, yes. They were whispering to me. I don't know what they were saying, but I know it was my son, and the other men on the Wall.”

“You keep the faith, Mrs. Ramirez. Nothing's more important than doing what you think is right.” He shakes Mom's hand, then reaches over and shakes Irene's hand. He looks at me.

“Have a safe journey. I wish I was going with you. I've never been there.”

“Don't say that too loud,” I tell him. “My mom wants to take the whole world with us. Look over there.” I point to Yellowhair and his mother Sarah. “Zuñi Indians. The woman's son, Strong Horse, known as Eddie Bika, was killed in Vietnam. Strangers to us, but they're traveling with us.”

“Wonderful,” he says.

Jeffrey and Scott stand out in the rain with the store manager, Emery Billings, waving to us and giving us a thumbs-up as we drive away. Other people wave to us from the entrance of the store, some come out into the parking lot, holding umbrellas or paper bags over their heads, protection against the rain that has started up again. The newsmen are filming us as our vehicles get back on the highway.

The day has been an exhausting one. Traveling in and out of the rain has taken its toll on us. Dark clouds make me feel like going to bed, and with Chris next to me, the thought of going to bed is so strong I have to start massaging my neck to deal with the pressure. Chris puts his hand on my arm. “Maybe you could spare a little neck rub for me,” he says. I smile. “Sure.” His hand has left a hot spot on my arm. Irene sighs, even though I thought she was dozing off.

Late on Monday afternoon, June 2, we arrive in Colorado Springs and head for our rooms in the TraveLodge. Manuel had a good experience on one of his business trips with people from India who run the motel chain. Now he wants to return the favor by giving them our business.

“I mean it,” Chris whispers as we're unloading. “I have a room to myself, and I need a neck rub.” I feel like shouting “WHERE'S THE ROOM?” but all I say is “After dinner, I'll see how Mom is doing.” I say it nonchalantly, like nothing's happening inside me. Manuel is watching us while he's helping Priscilla get her things into her room. He brushes past me with two suitcases. One of the suitcases hits my knee.

“Sorry,” he says. “Did I hurt you?” He pauses to look at me, then stoops down to take a closer look at my leg.

“No, I'm fine.”

“I should be more careful, or you should be more careful, or we both should be.”

“Never mind, it's OK.”

 

W
E'RE CONTROLLED
by time. The hours, minutes, and seconds of our lives tick away in regimental order. We try to catch up to time, but it eludes us and forces us to spill over into tomorrow. There are times when we want nothing more than to stop the world and demand that time stand still. Michael says time is relative to how fast we're moving. Objects traveling at the speed of light have a different experience of time. This poses a problem for astronauts who will travel in outer space for long periods of time. If the voyage is an extended one, the astronauts may come back younger than their own grandchildren! Time on earth is dictated by the forces of nature, the aging process, and the way we live our lives. It's true that when something is important to us, time seems to pass too quickly, and when we are going through great suffering, time passes too slowly.