Let Their Spirits Dance (32 page)

W
e're driving into D.C. at dusk on Friday, June 6, 1997. The press conference made us late. What should have taken us no more than two hours' travel time has now extended to a whole afternoon. We drive past green, rolling hills, thick foliage, wildflowers, and huge trees. Picturesque homes, some with red barns, and tin roofs dot the landscape. We move slowly, waiting for the vehicles to line up so nobody gets lost. We've decided to go big and stay at the Capitol Hilton, only blocks away from the White House.

“Did it rain?” I ask Chris.

“No, why?”

“All the cars look washed.” He looks through the rearview mirror and laughs. “They're just shining in the sun, Teresa. We're at the end, that's what's making everything so clear.”

Traffic is picking up, fast cars that move helter-skelter all around us. Some appear to be following our vehicles, making us look like a cavalcade of at least fifty cars. The flags and Zuñi feathered wands on our vehicles are fluttering in the breeze, waving a colorful salute.

“Look, Mom! Look at all the people following us!” Mom turns to look out the back window.

“Ay Dios mio! Will we all fit at the hotel?”

“Mom, they're not staying with us! They're probably people who
live around here. People who have been reading about us, or watching us on TV.”

“God bless them all!”

“Can you imagine if they all stayed with us?” Chris asks me.

“Don't say it too loud. Mom might get the idea into her head.”

We're driving down Georgia Avenue on the northeast side. We see Black people everywhere, crossing the street, walking the sidewalks, kids playing out in crowded apartments.

“La capital!” Irene cries with joy. “We're here, Alicia, here to touch our sons' names! What would they say to see us here? Ay mijitos!”

Then without warning, my mother begins to sing in a voice so clear and crisp, you'd think she was thirty, instead of seventy-nine.

I turn to look at her and her face is radiant. If I could have taken her picture in that instant, I would have framed it and put it into one of the stained glass windows at St. Anthony's Church. I wave at Manuel and Priscilla in the van following us. Their images blur through my tears.

My mother's voice is rushing in my ears, and I never want her to stop, not now, not ever. Her voice is my lullaby again, caressing my soul. We round the corner onto Constitution Avenue and see the Capitol loom ahead of us, imposing, regal. On either side are buildings that belong to the Smithsonian, some with American flags waving from entrances and front lawns. The cavalcade of cars curves behind us with my mother's voice announcing to the nation's capital that we are here, the Mexicas of Aztlán, to pay honor to their fallen warriors.

 

• W
E DRIVE BY
the memorials, but don't stop to get down. We barely glimpse the pathway leading to the Wall, and the Wall itself, off in the distance. There is anxious energy in all of us, we want to run to the Wall, and we want to run the other way. We decide to get to our rooms and wait for the ceremony promised by the Army in the morning. My mother says nothing when I tell her we're staying at the Hilton. I expected a lecture about the cave Christ was born in, and how La Virgen didn't even have a decent blanket to wrap Him in, but she only nods, and asks me if I got rooms for everybody, including Pepe, Gonzalo, and Fritz. Pobres, she says, they probably drink to stop their pain. That's the way it is with men, she says, always wanting to hide their pain.

Mom looks so strong, I swear she's gotten ten years younger. Her appetite is good. She eats dinner for the first time in weeks and finishes the meal. Mom and Irene tease each other like girls in school, laughing about what they've been through to get to this city. I imagine them teenagers, giggling behind their hands, wearing miniature copies of their Virgen medallions. They've arrived to where their sons are immortalized in granite, etched in silence, reflecting back light from the sun shining overhead.

That night Chris and I decide to go dancing. There's a sigh of relief between us, a coming together that makes us feel comfortable with each other. We're los peregrinos, the pilgrims who made it through valleys, hills, and enchanted landscapes to come to the end of an old woman's promise, la manda she made to God, a compact that could never be broken, except by death. We should have set our sights on Magdalena, Mexico, at least we could have lifted San Francisco's head from its stiff pillow and know our prayer was being answered. I don't know what we're supposed to do at the Wall, except touch Jesse's name—all this way to touch his name.

 

• M
ANUEL
, P
RISCILLA
, P
AUL
, D
ONNA, AND
G
ATES
decide to join us for the evening. The kids, Willy, Susie, and Sarah stay back at the Hilton with the Guadalupanas. Yellowhair, Gonzalo, Pepe, and Fritz decide to go off to the seamy side of the city to look for action.

Visits to the web page have tripled the closer we get to D.C. It takes all Michael's time to man the web page and answer as many requests as he can. We've taken rooms on the Towers floor of the Hilton and get our own concierge who provides us personalized service. We get our own fax
machine, which Michael and Cisco are using to send faxes to some of the people who have visited our web site.

The old women set up their makeshift altar on a coffee table draped in white linen. The image of La Virgen, the statue of El Santo Niño with Jesse, Faustino, and Gustavo's photos propped up in the middle, are becoming familiar faces glowing between the flickering candles.

The Hilton staff is looking in on us every hour. They heard about the money we got from the government and know our names from stories they read about us in the newspaper. The whole place makes the Guadalupanas nervous. They're not used to being served. The rooms are too rich for them, they say. I'm glad it's late, and we can't go off hunting for another hotel.

We ask a cab driver who looks like he's from some foreign country to recommend a nightclub. He's wearing a turban wrapped around his head. We barely make out his English and finally end up having to trust him to drive us to a decent place. We pack two taxis to the Club Noche Libre. We're together in the nation's capital, Chris, Gates, Priscilla, Manuel, Paul, Donna, and I, spruced up, dressed to the hilt, out to celebrate the end of the journey of our lives.

Everybody in Club Noche Libre looks foreign. There's a hundred dialects of English going on at the same time. Most of the people seem to be from Central America. The place is jammed, smoky, small and lighted by dim violet lights. The music is hot salsa. I can't believe how small it is! Nobody seems to mind, they just stack up closer together. I imagine people's drinks get mixed up with others. From the looks of things, I don't think people care much what they're drinking. We're ushered in after paying ten dollars a head, and sit in dark corners, close to the door. Manuel and Priscilla are holding hands. They look so proper, almost conservative. I'm convinced Priscilla and I have changed roles. I'm the daring splash, and she's Miss Prim and Proper. How did this happen? I'm wearing a red silk dress I picked up at Dillard's, the ritzy fashion store in Phoenix. It clings to me, outlining my body.

 

• I
DON'T SEE HIM
at first, Gates does. They're giving each other back slaps and El Cielito high fives before I know who it is. I almost tip the table on Chris's lap when I jump up to run to him. It's Ricky Navarro! Not even the excitement of getting to D.C. matches the way I feel
when I see my boyhood prince, the kid next door, who should have been born rich, glowing like an amethyst in the violet lights of Club Noche Libre.

“Teresa, you're real, you're real!” He's saying this, holding me in his arms, spinning me until the violet lights look like a halo over the place.

“Is this real?” I keep asking him, over and over, “Is this real?” I almost sit down on the floor so we can exchange teacups and secrets. If I could frame this scene, we would be in an empty nightclub. All I can see is Ricky. Everybody else is only looking at us through windows.

“Put her down,” Chris says. “What do you want to do, make her dizzy?” Ricky puts me down and reaches over to shake Chris's hand, still holding me by the waist. He looks at me again. I stare back at him, at his elegant face and green eyes. He's let his beard grow, perfectly trimmed around his face. He's wearing a black coat, black tie, and everything else white.

“I've been sending messages to your web site, but I didn't want you to know it was me. I wanted to surprise you! I called the hotel, and your son, Cisco, told me you were on your way to the club.”

“What are you doing in D.C.?”

“I work for the Veterans Administration. After I got my head straight, I decided to do something for all the vets who never got it together. I worked in California for years as a counselor for Vietnam vets, then they transferred me here.”

“With your family?”

“My ex-wife's back in San Jose with our daughter.”

“What ever happened to that hippie girl, Faith?”

“Who knows. We lost track of each other years ago.”

“And your husband, Ray?” he asks me.

“We just got divorced.” He smiles big.

Then he whispers, “Old Ray couldn't keep you after all. He didn't deserve you, Teresa, nobody does but me.”

Manuel, Priscilla, Paul, and Donna are shaking Ricky's hand, talking to him, hugging him. Ricky never moves from my side, not that night, and not ever again.

 

• I
SHOULD REMEMBER
magic is short-lived. It doesn't replace reality for very long. The prince finds the princess locked up in a tower and then
has to fight the fire-spitting dragon to win her. Am I forgetting my fairy tales, dancing with Ricky? I want to control myself but can't. Every time I get close to Ricky, I want to hug him with both arms and elephant-walk on his shoes. I want our bodies to meet, splendid, warm curves fitting into each other. There's a scent that flows from both of us, as if we've just created a new perfume.

Even as I'm dancing, it's easy to spot Sarah, Yellowhair's mother, when she comes into Club Noche Libre. She's ancient, and everybody else is modern. She's wearing her Zuñi clothes and has her hair back in a bun. Sarah is walking toward me with a man who looks like the owner of the club.

“Excuse me,” he says. “This lady is looking for you.” Sarah's eyes are big. She's looking intently at me.

“What is it, Sarah?”

“Your mother, Teresa. Willy took her to the hospital. She's very ill.” She says the words so quietly, I don't react at first. Then my knees bend like Mom's did at the airport when she said good-bye to Jesse. Ricky scoops me up by the elbows.

“It's OK, Teresa, I'll take you to the hospital.”

“Which hospital?”

“George Washington University, the paramedics took her there,” Sarah says.

Manuel and Priscilla are already running out the door with Donna, Gates, and Sarah. They jump into a taxi before Chris and I get into Ricky's car.

We get to George Washington University and find out Mom's in the critical care unit. The words wreak havoc inside my brain.
Critical care
. I'm glad Chris and Ricky are with me. I need them both to make it into the elevator and up to the fourth floor. When I get off, I see Irene huddled in the corner of one of the couches, a grounded sparrow, her wings broken. The kids are with her, sitting around on other couches and chairs. The twins sit on either side of Irene, and the boys are together, their faces gloomy. Angelo is leaning on Cisco, half asleep. Willy and Susie are standing together. Willy walks up to me.

“I'm sorry, Teresa. I took her as soon as I could. She was having trouble breathing, and I didn't want to take any chances.”

I give him a hug. “Thank you, Willy. You were there for her.”

I look over at Irene. She's crying. “Tu Mama, Teresa. She will have to fight to keep la manda now.”

“Never mind about la manda. God's not gonna send her to hell for
not keeping it.” Thinking about God makes me angry. Is all this a joke? Are El Santo Niño and La Virgen accomplices? Miraculous figures who sent Mom on her way to the Wall only to trip her up just before the fateful day?

“Where is God now?” I ask Irene.

“Everywhere,” she says.

“You're impossible,” I tell her. I walk down the hall and see Sarah leaning up against the wall next to Mom's room. Priscilla, Paul, Manuel, and Donna are inside Mom's room, standing around her bed. Mom is hooked up to a heart monitor and an oxygen tank. She looks ashen, her hair disheveled around her.

Prsicilla walks up to me and whispers angrily in my ear, “I told you, didn't I? I told you Mom wouldn't make it. Damn you, Teresa! You never listen to me.” Priscilla's words go through me like the thrust of a knife—sharp, cutting.

The nurse comes in and tells us there's too many people in the room. “What happened?” I ask her. She draws me out into the hall.

“Your mother's had a heart attack,” she says, “and we think there may be a blood clot going through her left artery.”

“That side's given her trouble for years,” I tell her. “I can give you her doctor's name in Phoenix.”