The Chicano/Latino Literary Prize (40 page)

“
Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo, santificado sea tu nombre …
”

Bernabé Delcano struggled with the crucifix he had been assigned to carry in the funeral procession. He was holding the cross high above his head, even though its weight made his forearms ache. His hands, which clutched the cross tightly, were stiff and white around the knuckles and fingertips. The young man, like his fellow seminarians, was dressed in a cassock which slowed down his movements. The intense heat made his head throb, and the public speakers that blared the prayers of the Mass only increased his discomfort.

He continually looked back into the crowd, making sure that his mother was not far from him. Bernabé felt assured each time he saw Luz's round face returning his glances, knowing that she too was keeping her eyes on him. Once, he held on to the crucifix with one hand and quickly waved at her with the other, but he didn't attempt that again, since the gesture almost made him drop the cross. Sweat formed on his neck and trickled down the inside of his shirt to his waist. He looked around him, seeing his mother's face again, but now the interference of faces and bodies made it impossible for him to get a sense of her feelings.

He looked at the faces of the other seminarians, hoping to catch a glimpse or a look that would indicate that their confusion was like his. Instead he saw blank, expressionless eyes. Only their lips moved in automatic response to the Our Fathers and Hail Marys mumbled by the priests at the head of the funeral procession. Bernabé looked beyond the faces of his classmates to those of the people. Some were lining the streets, but the majority walked behind the priests and the nuns, the seminarians, and altar boys. Looking at those faces, he was suddenly reminded of a painting. Once he had taken an art class in which his professor had dismissed the unit on cubism with one word: excrement. Yet, Bernabé had been fascinated by the pictures and examples shown in the textbook, and had spent hours in the library of the seminary reflecting on them. One of the selections had been entitled “Guernica,” and the caption beneath the picture had identified it as the work of Pablo Picasso. Bernabé knew little regarding the artist, except that people argued as to whether he was a Spaniard or a Frenchman. What mattered to Bernabé, though, was the painting.

In it were fragments of human beings. The portrait showed incongruously shaped heads, rigid, outstretched arms, dilated eyes, twisted lips, jagged profiles, all scattered without apparent meaning. It also showed parts of an animal, the face of a horse. Bernabé had noticed that the animal bore the look of terrified human beings. Or was it, he had wondered, that the reverse was true, and that human faces looked like animals when they sensed their slaughter was near. The odd thing, he had thought at the time, was that those
broken pieces of human beings could not be brought together again, even though he had attempted to imagine a head attached to some arms as he tried to piece together a human figure.

Now, as Bernabé marched in the cortège, he realized that these people around him were really fragmented: faces, eyes, cheeks, and arms. They were broken pieces just like in Picasso's disjointed painting.

“
Ave María, llena eres de gracia …
”

The cortège wound through the streets, past the indifferent eyes of the wealthy, and past those who pretended to be wealthy. Their tight lips betrayed a feeling of disgust. It was a pity those faces said to Bernabé, that the Archbishop had not heeded his finer instincts, his better judgement. Their eyes betrayed their beliefs that priests had best stay out of politics and confine themselves to Mass and to forgiving.

“
Gloria al Padre, y al Hijo y al Espíritu Santo …
”

Bernabé began to feel fatigued; faces blurred in front of him. The endless prayers droned monotonously in his ears. The cross seemed heavier with each minute. As he moved along with the rest of the mourners he began to stumble on the wet pavement. His fingers went numb and his perspiration made the cross slip in his clutching fists. Suddenly, he dropped the cross and fell on his knees. His cassock got entangled around his ankles and the press of people from behind kept him down, forcing him to crawl on his hands and knees.

Bernabé jerked his head right and left. Unexpectedly, a loud blast shook the ground under his hands. A grenade exploded in the midst of the surging crowd at the edge of Plaza Barrios facing the Cathedral. The blast was followed by machine gunfire and rifle shots that came from several directions making the mass of people panic. Hastily, the Archbishop's body was picked up and taken into the church by four bishops. Most of the mourners, however, were unable to reach the sanctuary of the Cathedral, and could not find shelter anywhere. They swerved and lunged in every direction, screaming hysterically.

Mothers crouched wherever they could in an attempt to protect their babies. Men and women pressed against the Cathedral walls hoping to find cover behind a corner or a sharp angle. Young men, mostly guerrillas, pulled out hand guns, then fired indiscriminately into the crowd in an attempt to hit members of the death squads with their random bullets. Uniformed soldiers suddenly appeared, also firing automatic weapons into the crowd.

The plaza was soon littered with bodies of the dead and the dying. People pushed and trampled each other in a frenzy to survive. No one thought. No one reasoned. Everyone acted out of instinct, pieces and fragments of tormented beasts driven by a compelling desire to live. All the time, the blasting and the firing of weapons and grenades continued.

Bernabé, crawling on the asphalt, was caught unaware by the first blast. The shifting weight of bodies pressing above and around him made it impossible for him to rise. Then bodies began crashing upon him, pinning him down. Suddenly, he felt intolerable pain as someone stepped on his hand, grinding the bones of his fingers against the pavement. He screamed as he attempted to defend himself with his other hand, but it was to no avail. The boot swiveled in the other direction, stepping on Bernabé's hand with an even greater force. The crowd dragged him back and forth, finally smashing him against a wall. Managing to pick himself up with his left hand, he leaned against the stone wall and looked at the bobbing heads and twisted limbs. The panic was at its peak.

“¡Mama-á-á-á-á!”

Bernabé's scream was hoarse and choked; it emanated from his guts, not from his throat. He didn't know what to do, where to go. His wailing rose above the howling of those around him, and he continued screaming for his mother.

The pain in Bernabé's arm was intense, forcing him to remain against the wall despite his urge to run. He remained motionless, feet planted on the bloodied concrete. His body was bathed in sweat and his face, neck and hair were caked with dirt, grime and blood. Bernabé began to sob, crying inconsolably even though he was a man of twenty years. He screamed because he feared he was going to die, and he didn't feel shame, nor did he care what anyone might think.

Suddenly the thought that his mother was also in danger cut short his panic. Bernabé lunged into the crowd, kicking and thrashing against the bodies that pushed him in different directions. He screamed out his mother's name, using his able arm to raise himself on whatever shoulder or object he could find, trying to get a glimpse of her. But his mother was nowhere in sight.

Bernabé was able to get away from the plaza, slipping through a break in the encircling cordon of soldiers. He ran around the fringes of the square several times. He rushed up and down streets, and into doorways, shouting her name, but his voice was drowned out by the din of sirens, the horrified screams of people, and the blasts of machine guns. Bernabé shouted out his mother's name until his voice grew hoarse and his throat began to make wheezing, gasping sounds.

He suddenly thought that she might have gotten out of the plaza and run home. So he scrambled toward his house, hoping that he would find her waiting for him, but when he arrived there the door was locked. With his good hand, he beat on the door. When his fingers became numb with pain, he banged with his forehead until he felt blood dripping down his cheeks.

Suddenly a brutal shove sent Bernabé sprawling on the pavement. When he looked up he saw a uniformed soldier standing over him. “What are you
doing here, Faggot? Better pick up your skirt and find a church to hide along with the other women. If you don't get your ass out of here, your brains are going to be shit splattered all over these walls. You have until the count of five.
Uno, dos, tres …
”

Bernabé sprang to his feet and ran. He kept running even though his breath began to give out, even though the pain in his arm was intolerable, even though he knew his mother needed him. Panic gripped at his guts and his brain. He knew he had to keep on running.

After the horror had spent itself in the plaza, stunned men and women searched in the lingering blue haze for a son, or a wife, or even an entire family. Among them was Luz Delcano. She called out her son's name, her soft weeping joining that of others, like the rotting moss that clung to the stone walls of the buildings surrounding the square. Luz Delcano went from one body to the next, taking the face of this one in her hands, turning over the body of another one. Desperation began to overcome her. In her fear she remembered the loss of her first son, Lucio. Now Bernabé, her second born, was also gone.

Terri De La Peña

First Prize: Short Story

My partner Luanne Jackson and I got the radio call on a cool Tuesday night. She flipped on our overhead lights and swung the black-and-white east on Broadway in Santa Monica, right past the new business complex.

“Lots of dark corners on that street, Ron. All kinds of hiding places.” “Yeah.” I stared out the dusty window. “Wish the city would get wise and get more street lights. Bad guys really like to play when it's pitch black out.”

“Don't get personal now.” She glanced at me across the squad car's interior. “You know I hate ‘black' used in a negative way.”

“So don't
you
go around accusing my homeboys in the department of ‘brown-nosing'.
I
don't like ‘brown' used as a put-down either, Ms. Jackson.”

We laughed together. Lu and I had been partners a long time. Neither of us thought it an accident that a black woman and a Chicano had been paired off. We liked to think we were an effective combo, especially in our own neighborhoods. No one in S.M.P.D. [Santa Monica Police Department] seemed willing to argue otherwise.

“There it is, on the right.”

Lu parked the squad car in front of a two-story, wood-trimmed apartment building. Hibiscus bushes and Italian cypresses bordered its entry, and a bare bulb shone from the building's eaves, offering dim illumination.

We approached the building and I took a quick look at the mailboxes. “Number five is at the top, Lu.”

She followed me up the stairs to the first apartment facing the street. At the top of the stairs we wound up on a narrow deck. It had a couple of plastic patio chairs, a rusting hibachi, and lots of potted plants. A sliding glass door faced the deck; its miniblinds were at a slanted angle. Through them I saw a Latina in a turquoise turtleneck and black jeans peer out. She had an edgy look on her face.

“I'm Officer Ron Velez,” I said when the woman unlocked the door. “My partner's Officer Luanne Jackson.” The more I looked at the Latina, the more familiar she seemed.

“Come in, please, Officers.” She extended her hand toward me. “I'm Pat Ramos, the one who made the call.”

“Patty Ramos?” I grinned suddenly, recalling a black-haired little girl who threw a mean curveball.

For a moment, she stared at me before covering her mouth with one hand.

“Are you related to Margie Velez? She was in my class at St.Anne' s.”

“Right.” I liked looking at her pretty eyes. “I'm Margie's big brother.”

“Well, unfortunately, we didn't come here to reminisce.” Lu tossed me a reprimanding glance. “Ms. Ramos, you reported you were being harassed?”

“Yes.” Pat Ramos took Lu's cue and got down to business. “By a man who lives across the street.” She stood by the wide front window as she spoke. On reflex, it seemed, she tugged at the miniblinds and pulled them shut. “I've caught him looking through las ventanas before. No sense in making it easy for him.”

The Ramos girl had grown into an attractive woman. No wonder men noticed her. Some loser she had dumped over was probably giving her a hard time. I sensed her anxiety and let my voice grow gentle. “Why don't you tell us about it?”

When she hesitated, Lu acted like she'd read my mind and cut in, “Is he your boyfriend?”

Pat Ramos sputtered a fast denial. “It isn't
that
at all. I …” she turned candid eyes to mine. “You see, I'm a lesbian. This guy knows it. He's been harassing me—and my friends.”

I was glad Lu kept up the questioning. Pat Ramos's admission threw me for a loop. She had been my kid sister Margie's playmate. Except for her short hair, she sure didn't look like a dyke to me.

Lu kept her pen poised over the notepad and avoided eye contact with me. “Why don't you tell us the whole story, Ms. Ramos.”

Meanwhile, I let my eyes roam around the apartment. I took in the floorto-ceiling bookcases and figured they were crammed with stuff about women's lib, abortion rights, all that plus lezzie propaganda. On other walls Pat Ramos had hung framed certificates and several photos of women. I wondered who they were.

She offered us seats. Lu acted like she hadn't heard that. We remained standing while Pat Ramos paced the small living room and her story.

“This guy has stared at me ever since he moved across the street.”

“Do you know his name?”