The Chicano/Latino Literary Prize (39 page)

Our hands met in a half-hearted attempt at the Chicano handshake, but we didn't quite remember all the intricacies. “Tino. Long time. What's up?”

I put up with Tino because of the old days. When we were young, Tino and I had ended up crawling on the floor more than a few times, usually after a dirty, ugly fight in a bar where the white kids were too sensitive for Tino's insults or the Chicano brothers decided they had had their fill of him.

He had a gleam in his eyes, like mica dust, and he was either higher than a kite or in love. I was drunk enough to be amused. He pushed the girl in my direction, and I knew that Tino's problem was not drugs, not right then. He hung on to a Chicana many years younger than either of us. I checked her out, not expecting much, and I was pleasantly surprised. In the shadowy smoke- and alcohol-induced glaze of the bar, I saw that Tino finally had done something right.

Long, black hair framed a thin, seductive neck. Her slender body snuggled against Tino with the right bit of casualness to whet my curiosity.

“Luis, old buddy, I want you to meet Teresa Fuentes. She just graduated from law school, man. A lawyer like you. This is the guy I was telling you about, baby, Luis Montez. Attorney-at-law and old-time revolutionary pal of mine.”

I looked at her face and, you know how it is, there are times when the people, atmosphere, and emotions all come together at the right instant, and you swear that life really is fine after all. The four black musicians on the small, barely lit stage kicked off their last set with a moody, bluesy jazz harmony that set exactly the right tone. The bourbon cruised my system, mellowing out the rough parts and tricking me into thinking that the city was the only way to go. And I stared into the most beautiful pair of eyes I had seen in years of chasing every manner and style of woman, tearing apart two marriages and who knows how many affairs, living through broken hearts and breaking a few, too. But those eyes turned me into a twenty-one-year-old loco, a dude on the prowl, and the world again was inhabited by beautiful, sensual women. The most beautiful, the most sensual was right there in front of me, rubbing her thigh against macho Tino, to be sure, but now she had met me, and, if Tino was pendejo enough to steer her my way, well, ése, así es la vida, man.

She offered her dark, manicured hand and I took it, compared its color to mine—almost a perfect match—rubbed it, and held it for a few seconds more than was appropriate. She smiled at me and about ten years of crust fell off my skin. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Montez. I've heard a lot about you.” I assumed from Tino, which meant I already could be trash in her eyes.

“Luis will do, Teresa. And don't believe anything Pacheco tells you unless he can produce two witnesses, unrelated.” Tino socked me in the arm—“Hey, bud, don't give Teresa the wrong idea”—and a puzzled, worried look creased her forehead. I wanted to touch her face, to assure her that the thing between Tino and me wasn't serious, that it had started somewhere back in the history
of our lives too ancient to remember. I massaged the charley horse in my shoulder left by Tino's punch. The guy always had been a pushy son of a bitch.

The night turned into a hazy, gritty smear of strong drinks, loud music, and smoky bars. We bounced around from one joint to another, Teresa drinking one for the three Tino and I guzzled. She was quiet, aloof, and I appreciated the way she surrounded herself with mystery. I tried to stay cool, but I was lost in the booze and every ten minutes or so I caught myself wanting to grab her and kiss her and rush her away to my place.

I couldn't ditch Tino, and the longer the night lasted the more belligerent and hostile he became. A half dozen times I had to pull him away from some guy he was going to bust in the mouth, or from the victim of one of his unprovoked verbal assaults who was ready to clobber him with a beer bottle. It was obvious he was trying to impress Teresa, but all she gave him was an occasional hug or a little kiss on the cheek and plenty of exasperated sighs. I guess it was enough for him.

Lolly's Taco Shack on West Thirty-Second Avenue has the best jukebox in town—James Brown and Los Gamblers, Al Green and Freddy Fender. At three in the morning, it's usually crowded with Mexicans whooping it up from the dance at the G.I. Forum hall, suburbanites tasting the edge, and professionals celebrating the fact that everything has gone their way. Teresa and I ended up at Lolly's to put a cap on the night with something other than alcohol. We munched away at menudo, enchiladas, and green chile, listening to a background of kitchen noises and the excited babble of culturally deprived white folks soaking up the color and smells of Denver's Little Mexico.

I tried small talk, but my concentration was shot. Those eyes. I would start to say something and then realize I had been staring at her in silence, taken in by the flashes of color and midnight deep in her eyes, and finally, awkwardly, I would look away or say something stupid.

I figured it was safe to ask about Tino, since he had passed out in the backseat of my car. “How long have you known Pacheco? He doesn't seem to be the type that would be in your circle.” The cloud that passed over her face told me I had again turned to stupidity when I had nothing else to say.

“Exactly what is my circle?” Something about my half-hearted attempt to insinuate she lived in a separate, more refined world upset her.

“Okay, okay. How about a simple how did you meet Tino?”

She shrugged, took her time about answering. “He's my landlord, if you can believe that. After the job offer from Graves, Snider and Trellis, I asked around about an apartment, a quiet place to study for the Bar exam. When I finished school, I moved up here quick, without much. Someone at the office told me about the Corsican Plaza. Tino's asked me out every week since I've been there, but I was so into the Bar, I didn't do anything else for two months. That's over now and I needed to unwind … so I took him up on his
offer. And here we are.” She smiled like a kid who had found a shiny new quarter in the sofa.

Before I lost myself again, I tried talking. “Tino's a little intense, sometimes. I've known him for a long time. He's basically all right. Loyal. Does the best job he can.” I wanted to tell her old Movement stories, brag about our days as Chicano radicals fighting cops and university deans. I let it go. The old days are harder and harder for me to drag up, especially with a young sweetheart scarcely old enough to remember the big names like César Chávez and Corky Gonzáles, let alone care about the grunts of the revolution.

“Sure. I don't have a problem with Tino. He reminds me of my brothers in Brownsville. Talks and struts just like them. A Chicano.” That explained that.

She must have been at the top of her class. Had to be close to coax a rise out of the old guys at Graves, Snider and Trellis. The offer was most likely contingent on her passing the Bar. She didn't seem fazed by that. She really was relaxed almost mellow and I was knocked out by her attitude. After I took the Bar exam, it was a month before I could relax, before I quit rehashing the questions and rewriting the answers in my head, convinced I had blown it. And I did not have the pressure of the best job I had ever been offered riding on the results. I was headed for the legal-aid office and the poor and under-privileged—if I could pass the damn Bar. Teresa had already forgotten about the exam.

She would be the first minority woman in the firm, so a certain amount of stress would come with the package. Little things like advising the most racist client one of the unhappy partners could steer her way, or fighting off the heavy-handed sexual maneuvers of her colleagues. But if she showed any ability at all, she'd have it made for the rest of her professional career, provided she didn't mind representing insurance companies and corporate employers, and counseling rich codgers about taxes and estates. Several years before, I would have railed at her about selling out, but I didn't have that in me anymore and, as far as I was concerned, she was far too beautiful to argue about political questions that had been debated again and again before she was born or when she was a kid.

“Is your family still in Texas?”

“My mother and one of my brothers are down there. Everybody else has spread out around the country.”

“You'll like Denver, Teresa. It's a beautiful city, plenty going on these days. Not much like Texas, though, particularly Brownsville.”

I bet myself that she was a good daughter of a traditional Chicano family. Fluent in Spanish—knew about vatos and cruising and the Chicano malerole playing that her brothers must have shown off whenever they had a chance. A woman I could fall for, forget the eyes.

With some women, you think you know exactly what is going on in their heads; you see it in their faces, the way they wrinkle their foreheads, or frown at the corners of their mouths, though often you cannot do anything about what you think you know. Surprise, or joy, or the hurt is right there and it helps clumsy slobs like me deal with them. We struggle to overcome the disadvantage we have whenever we are in the company of women who turn our blood to frozen honey.

Teresa offered no such help. I had not learned the kinds of things I wanted to know about her and she gave up nothing about herself unless I asked. She would be good in court or across the conference table. Opposing counsel would pay trying to figure her out before she lowered the boom. I promised myself to avoid that situation.

The eyes—shining in the restaurant's bright white lights, creating lewd and wonderful visions in my imagination about what the two of us could do with each other. They flared up again at the mention of her hometown. I dipped a piece of tortilla in my menudo and pretended to eat.

“Have you been down there, Luis?”

“Years ago. When I was in college. I had a friend from San Benito. He took me through Texas when we were out on the road. A little Chicano roots trip to Mexico and other points south. Long time ago. Maybe you know his family. His name was Ruben Ruíz. We called him Rocky. You know anybody named Ruíz?”

For the first time that night, she missed a beat. She tried to shovel food in her mouth and answer at the same time, and it didn't work. Her spoon rattled on her plate. The beers were finally catching up.

“No. Not from down home. I don't know any Ruíz. But you're absolutely right. Denver is nothing like Brownsville.” She reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “I should go home, Luis. I think I've had it, probably overdid it my first night out since I've been locked up with my Bar outlines and law books. And we have to take Tino home.”

I held on to her hand. “Right. Good old Tino. We can drop him at his favorite corner. He's used to sleeping it off in the gutter.”

Twenty-five minutes later, as I half-carried, half-dragged him into her apartment and then plopped him on her couch, I seriously wondered why we hadn't thrown him in the street. Then I reminded myself that we were buddies, carnales, revolutionary comrades, and it would not do to toss him away, no matter how much of an asshole he was, no matter how much I wanted to tell Teresa that we needed to learn more about each other and why didn't I spend the night and show her how sweet an older Chicano with about ten drinks over his limit can be, given the opportunity.

“You sure he'll be okay here? I can take him to my place, let him sleep it off on my back porch. You hardly know this guy.”

She laughed as she threw a blanket over the snoring lump. “Quit worrying. He's my landlord. I see him every day. His apartment is one floor under mine. If we knew what he did with his key, we could take him to his place. It doesn't make sense for you to cart him around town so you can bring him back here in the morning. It'll be all right. I can take care of Tino.” I left knowing damn well that she could and thinking that Tino better not try anything with her once he came out of his stupor. Something about the strength of Texas women had always brought out my admiration. Or was it the eyes?

Graciela Limón

Third Prize: Novel

Thousands thronged to the Basilica of the Sacred Heart … and joined a silent procession behind the cortège as it was taken to the Metropolitan Cathedral. The sealed gray casket of assassinated Archbishop Oscar Arnulfo Romero rested on the steps of San Salvador's huge Cathedral, a wreath of red roses at its head. Suddenly the outdoor funeral service was transformed into a tableau of horror: exploding hand bombs, wild gunfire, terrified crowds stampeding in panic. Before it was over, 35 people had been killed; 185 others had been hospitalized … others disappeared.

Time
, April 14, 1980

San Salvador, El Salvador

March 1980

Even though the size of the crowd was immense, a strange silence prevailed. Only the hushed shuffling of the mourners' feet and that of their intermittent prayers broke the stillness. The streets surrounding the Cathedral were clogged with people who had come from every sector of the city, and from beyond San Salvador. There were those who had left kitchens, factories and schoolrooms.
Campesinos
had walked distances from valleys and volcanos, from coffee plantations and cotton fields. They all came to accompany their Archbishop on his last pilgrimage through the city. Most of them wept, crouching close to one another; some in grief and others in fear. They pressed and pushed against one another hoping to see something, anything that might give them a sense of direction. They were nervous, knowing that every doorway could be a sniper's hiding place.

From the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, where the Archbishop had lain in state, the grievers filed toward the steps of the Cathedral's crypt. The
murmur of whispered prayers and stifled sobs rose, crashing against the shell-pocked walls, swirling and tumbling in mid-air.