The Children of Sanchez (16 page)

I didn’t want to believe that my mother was dead. They laid her out and that night I secretly got into bed with her. They were looking for me, and I was sleeping next to my mother under the sheet they had covered her with. At that age I already knew that dying meant the person left this world forever, though I told my brother and sister, “Don’t cry,
mamá
is just sleeping.” And I went close to my mother and said, “
Mamá, mamá
, you’re sleeping, aren’t you?” I touched her face, but I knew she would never wake up again.

I missed my mother then, and I still miss her. Since her death I felt I could never be happy again. Some people feel relieved when they talk about their troubles, but I’ve told this to many people and it has never helped. I feel calm only when I run away, when I go off as a
vagabond, when I am alone in the country or up in the mountains. I believe if my mother were still alive I’d be very different. Or perhaps I’d be worse.

When my mother died, my grandmother was a second mother to me. I followed her around all the time. I called her little grandmother with the same love that I had called my mother,
mamá
. She was always good to us, but was very strict and stern in character. After all, she was old and had been brought up in the old style. They were more upright in everything.

She came to live with us and took good care of us. She sold cake crumbs in the plaza and I used to visit her all the time. I felt an urge to be with her because she understood me and used to give me lots of advice. The rest of the family, even my aunt Guadalupe who was closest to us, used to call me “
negro cambujo
” and “devil face.” I never knew what “black
cambujo
” meant but it hurt me just the same. So I always stuck close to my grandmother.

Manuel never wanted to go with her to buy the cake crumbs or the bread. I was the one who liked to go with her. I don’t know why, I was only a kid, but I felt that if I went along with her early in the morning, nothing could possibly happen to her, and thank God, we never came to any harm. One time Manuel went with us and he made my grandmother very angry. A vendor was selling sugared crab apples on a stick, shouting, “
Tejocotes, tejocotes
one
centavo
.” Manuel, who was always teasing my grandmother, began to yell, “Grandmothers, one
centavo …
a
centavo
a grandmother …” Well, she scolded him and tried to grab him, but, of course, she could never catch him. He was a fast runner. He was only fooling, but he made her cry that time, and it hurt me very much.

We were living on Cuba Street at the time, yes, on Cuba Street, because my
papá
had just gotten to know Elena, and my grandmother left our house and went to live with my aunt Guadalupe. I felt even more lonely and really missed my mother then, because as long as my grandmother was there, I didn’t feel as though my mother was gone.

When Elena came to be my stepmother I went to my granny Pachita to complain, telling her Elena this and Elena that. My grandmother was my crying towel in those days. I really unburdened myself with her. I even stole the plants and, well, I didn’t steal them, they were my mother’s and I didn’t want Elena to touch them, so I
would bring them to my grandmother or to my aunt. But I lost my poor little grandmother too, for she died soon after.

From the beginning, my stepmother didn’t like me and I didn’t like her. We did not get along very well, my young stepmother and I. For me there was only one mother in all the world, and even though a hundred others came along and wanted to act like my mother, it was not the same thing. Besides, I had learned from my friends that stepmothers were bad.

Elena was about eighteen years old, I think, or less. Anyway, she was too young and lacked experience to take care of a widower with four children. She didn’t know how to get us to obey her, especially me, for I was the wildest. If she had spoken to me nicely, I would have been putty in her hands, but she always wanted to control me, to order me around, to dominate my life. Ever since I was small, I didn’t like to have anyone but my mother or father order me around. If Elena laid a hand on me I would fight back. I always defended myself physically, I never knew how to defend myself with words.

One of the reasons I fought so much with Elena was because on account of her Manuel and I had to sleep on the floor. Once I heard my
papá
and Elena talking. She was saying that we had had the bed long enough and that the girls were growing up. So my father ordered Manuel and me to sleep on the floor—not exactly on the floor, because my
papá
bought straw mats for us. I guess at that time he couldn’t buy a bed.

I cried a few times but never said a word to my father. It hurt and I had a feeling of anguish around my heart. I felt sad, like a dog, sleeping on the floor. I missed my
mamá
very much then. When she was alive we slept on beds and were better off. Even after she died … before Elena came … we slept in a bed, with my
papá
, in the place that Elena took.

I was very happy sleeping next to my father. What fights Manuel and I had when he took my place next to my
papá
! We would argue until my
papá
said, “Everybody shut up and go to sleep.” Wham! Out would go the light, off would come his shoes, his pants would be put on the chair, and then everything was quiet.

From the beginning, one of the things that I didn’t like was that Elena had been living with another man. I was very much afraid for my father, because her ex-husband might take revenge or something.

My father gave me many scoldings and beatings on account of the
ideas my stepmother put into his head. She was not entirely wrong but she embroidered the truth and twisted things. And many times she provoked me into being bad. If I jumped on the bed and got it dirty, she said, “Get off,
negro cambujo
!” That would hurt me and I answered, “You filthy old bag, why do you call me black? If I am black it is because God made me that way.” Then she would hit me and I would hit her back and make her cry.

When my father came home, instead of saying “hello,” she heaped it all up on him. So my father, who was all worn out from the day’s work, would become exasperated and wouldn’t even listen to me. He just beat me. The next day I tangled with Elena again.

My poor father! How much money my quarrels with that woman cost him! How many fifty’s, hundred’s, three hundred’s of
pesos
, how many coats, shoes and dresses, to content the
señora
. How mad it made me! She saved the money and I sometimes stole it from her because of the way she got it from my
papá
.

Although I haven’t been able to show it, I not only love my father, I idolize him. I used to be his pride and joy when I was a kid. He liked me more than my brother, because when he’d go anywhere, he took me first. Many times just the two of us would go to the Basilica or to the movies or just take a walk in the evening. He still loves me with the same deep love, except that he doesn’t show it any more because I don’t deserve it.

My father was always very dry with us; he didn’t talk much and we could never discuss our problems with him. I tried to be close to him. I wanted him to treat us in a special way, like other
papás
, to talk with us, to fuss over us. I liked so much the way we used to kiss his hand when he came home, or hug him. I felt my father understood me better in those days, although even then I missed a sign of affection, a word of encouragement.

Only twice in my life did my father speak intimately to me. He asked me, “Son, what troubles you? What is the matter? Tell me your troubles.” I felt the most important and happy person in the world to hear him call me “son” so affectionately. Usually he called me Roberto or “you,” and scolded me with bad words.

I have always disliked it when a son raises his voice to his father. Whenever my father scolded us or even just talked to us, it was impossible to look him in the eye, because he had a fierce expression. When I wanted to explain myself or at least clear up the truth a bit,
he would not let me speak. “You, shut your mouth,” and, “The only thing you are good for is this or that.” I have never answered him back when he bawled me out. Instead I reproached myself. I told my brother and sisters that if my father was not good with us it was our fault. A father is sacred, especially mine. He is a good, fine person. There isn’t another like him.

My father never beat us unless there was a good reason. He hit us with a broad belt he still wears. It was double thick and he’d hit us hard, especially me. He whacked us so much we sort of got hardened and didn’t feel it any more, even though when he was angry he laid it on. Unfortunately for me, I had the damndest habit. When I was being whipped, I’d knock my head against the wall or the wardrobe or something else. I kept whacking myself on the head, without knowing why.

Then, when I was about ten years old, my father took to using an electric cord, a very thick one, two meters long. He folded it in four parts and tied a knot in it. Wow! then we could feel the punishment. Every time he gave us a lash, it raised a welt. And my father wasn’t the type who stopped with the one who did it, he went after both of us alike. He was impartial that way.

My father always urged me to go to school. How stupid I was not to have listened to him! I could never explain to myself why I didn’t like school. When my classmates were sent to the blackboard they did their exercises quickly and were sure of themselves, but when I was called up, I felt a weight on my back because I knew everybody’s eyes were on me. I thought they were whispering about me. I wanted to be way ahead of them and because of this I couldn’t concentrate and it took me longer.

My mother, my aunt, or my grandmother would take me to school; sometimes they had to drag me there. I had a feeling of desperation about them leaving me alone with all those boys and girls. I felt inferior compared to so many people.

I was in the first grade for four years, not because I was stupid but because I played hooky. I did second grade in one year but when I passed to the third grade I attended only two or three months and never returned. Because of my friends and perhaps because I had so little liberty in my home, I enjoyed playing hooky and often went to Chapultepec Park. My father was notified when I missed school and would be waiting for me with the strap when I got home.

When we were children, my brother and I were closer to each other. He always protected me; for years Manuel was the handkerchief I dried my tears on. I used to be quite a coward and a crybaby, very
rajón
, as we say in Mexico, because if somebody would just shout at me, I’d start crying. I was afraid of the older boys. They’d threaten me and I’d cry; if anyone touched me, I’d scream. Right off I’d go running to my brother and he, poor fellow, had a lot of fighting to do on account of me.

I was in the third grade when Manuel graduated. I didn’t have the courage to face all those boys without him and that is why I quit school.

I don’t know why but I have always felt less than a nobody. Never in my whole life did I feel that there was anyone who paid attention to me. I have always been sneered at … belittled. I always wanted to be something in life, to do whatever I felt like and not have to take orders from anyone. I wanted to make a kite of my life and fly it in any field.

I wanted to be somebody in athletics, to be a great automobile driver or motorcyclist and compete in races. I have always wanted to be an aviator. One day my
papá
took me to the Lagunilla Market to buy me a cap. He said, “Which cap do you want?” I immediately asked for one with goggles, the kind aviators use.

When I played with my friends, the game was always aviation. To make it more real, I would lower my goggles and go up on the roof to run there like a plane. Or I would go running around the courtyard. I’d tie ropes to the water pipes and make a swing. That was my airplane and I really felt as if I were flying. That was one of my dreams. Whenever a plane flew by, even to this day, I keep watching it, longing to fly one some day.

My head was cracked open because I wanted to fly. My cousin Salvador, my aunt Guadalupe’s son, may he rest in peace, was very playful and liked to fool around with us. One time I asked him to give me an airplane ride, that is, to swing me around and around. He always did whatever we wanted and so he took hold of my wrist and ankle and began to whirl me around. He suddenly lost control, and wham! I was dashed against the wall. My head was opened and when I came to, my
mamá
and
papá
and everybody were very alarmed. I was covered with blood but I didn’t get scared. Actually, I enjoyed the fact that I was bleeding. It left a scar here on my head.

I am full of tears. I was always getting banged up. My head was opened other times, by falling off the roof or getting hit in stone fights, in wars, with my friends. Once I nearly lost an eye and I bled so much I thought I was going to die. I was running and fell on a sharp little toy shovel I was carrying. It went right into my left eye, but they took me to a doctor and I can still see out of it pretty well. The worst scar and one of the worst frights of my life was when I was bitten on the arm by a dog.

I learned to swim before my brother did even though he had gone often with his friends. I sort of hung around them hoping they would take me. I used to play hooky to go swimming in a pool not far from my house. There was an attendant there, Josué, whom I admired very much because he was a good swimmer and a nice guy. He was tall, strong and very husky. I don’t mind telling you, he had some body. I wanted to be like him, nice, big, strong, and able to get some recognition. He used to talk to us about how he had been all over the Republic.

Once, when I was eight years old, I didn’t have money for a ticket to the pool. Manuel, his friend Alberto, the Donkey, and I were standing outside the gate trying to scrape together money, when a drunk came by. This man gave Manuel and the Donkey the money they needed. So I said, “What about me? Aren’t you going to give me some, too?” He just started off, and I said, “Listen,
señor
, won’t you give me what I need for a ticket?”