The Children of Sanchez (9 page)

Along the road were crosses which marked the spot where someone had died, and all the women believed that the spirit of the dead one was waiting to possess the children that passed by. The women, those carrying children, shouted out the name of their child every time they passed a cross, so the child’s soul would not remain there.

In the hills, we saw balls of fire going from one peak to another and people would say, “It’s a witch! A witch!” And everyone would kneel and start to pray. The mothers began covering up their children. My
mamá
put her arms around us under the blanket so the witch wouldn’t get us. They said the best way to catch a witch was to kneel before a pair of scissors, opened to form a cross, and pray the Magnificat. With each Our Father you must make a knot in a
rebozo
. When the last knot was made, the witch was supposed to fall at your feet and then be burned in a fire made with green wood.

As we walked through the mountain passes, my
mamá
told us some of the legends about Chalma. She showed us “The Pack Driver,” a rock which looked like a man in Indian dress, leading a
burro
and a dog. This teamster, they say, had killed his partner up there in the mountain, and had turned to stone. Later, we passed “The Corn-padres,” some rocks in the middle of a river. These were
compadres
who had sinned by fornicating right there in the river, and they, too, were turned to stone. And there was another curious rock formation that looked just like a priest, with
sombrero
and cape, his hand on his cheek, as though he was thinking. Who knows what sin he committed, but he too had been punished by heaven. The old people believe that these rocks turn toward the Church, once a year, and when they finally reach the Church, they will be disenchanted and transformed to their original selves.

We saw the Penitents, people who had vowed to walk the rocky road to the shrine on their knees, or with their ankles tightly tied. They moved slowly, helped along by
compadres
, and arrived bleeding,
with their skin worn off, and sometimes with their bones showing. That sight impressed me most.

My
mamá
and all her family went to Chalma regularly. They were also very devoted to the Virgin of San Juan de los Lagos, but that pilgrimage took longer; we went with my mother every year. My
papá
accompanied her only once; but he never went to Chalma. He didn’t like religious pilgrimages and that was another thing they quarreled about. My
papá
has always said about my
mamá
’s family, “They are very saintly, but they drink all the way to the shrine.”

It was true that my mother’s brothers, José and Alfredo and Lucio, drank a lot, in fact, they all died of drink. My aunt Guadalupe also liked to drink her daily
copita
. But I do not recall that my mother’s mother, my grandmother, drank. She was the kind of sprightly old lady who always walked erect, and was very, very clean. She never wore anything dirty, even her shoes were kept polished, and she dressed very severely, in a black silk blouse and long black skirt.

My grandma used to live with my aunt Guadalupe, in a room on the Street of the Painters. Grandma would come to our house every day at breakfast time, after my
papá
had left for work. She helped my
mamá
by washing our faces and necks and hands. She scrubbed us so hard with the
zacate
I felt like screaming. She’d say, “You grimy rascals, why do you get so filthy?”

My grandmother was steeped in religion, even more than my
mamá
, and she was like a godmother to us, teaching us to cross ourselves and to pray. She was devoted to the Archangel San Miguel, and taught us his prayer, and the Magnificat, which she said was the best medicine against all ills. She had an hour for prayer on all the festival days, the
fiesta
of the Palms, the Pentecost, the Day of the Dead … all of them. On the Day of the Dead she lit the candles, put out the glass of water, the bread of the dead, the flowers, the fruit. After she and my mother died, no one ever did that in our house. My grandmother was the only one who was rich in tradition and who tried to pass it on to us.

My father’s family lived in a small town in Veracruz and we knew almost nothing about them. When Roberto and I were very small, my
papá
’s
papá
sent for us. My grandpa was alone because my grandma and uncles had died, I don’t know exactly how. My grandpa had the biggest grocery store in Huachinango and many people in the village owed him money. He said the store was ours and my
father finally sold it. But an uncle of mine, my grandfather’s half-brother, had my father put in jail to get the money away from him. I think they wanted to kill him or something but at night my mother sneaked out and went to the jail. It was only a country jail, and she hit the guard with a club. I’m not sure what she did but she got
papá
out of jail and we beat it as fast as we could, back to Mexico City. As a result, my father didn’t get a single penny out of my grandpa’s store.

I was six years old when Consuelo was born. Roberto and I saw the midwife come in and there was a lot of movement going on but we didn’t understand anything then. We were put out of the room and then we heard a baby’s cry. I always liked to hear a baby crying and for me it was a very nice thing to have a sister. But she slept in the bed with my parents, and when my mother carried her around all the time, nursing her, and calling her “my pretty little daughter,” I began to have an ugly feeling. My mother noticed that I was jealous and said, “No, no, son, you know you are my favorite. Don’t believe anything else.” It was true, because when she went out selling she always, always, took me with her. We left Roberto with my grandma and I went with
mamá
. Knowing how much she loved me, I would ask for everything I saw and would go into a temper if she didn’t buy it. She used to say, “
Ay
, son, I love you very much but you are very demanding. I wonder what you will be like when you are big.”

One day my
mamá
and I were going to the Granero bakery for cake crumbs. She was talking to her
comadre
, Consuelo’s godmother, when I noticed blood running down
mamá
’s leg. I asked her if she had cut herself and she looked down and saw the blood and said, “I guess I really did cut myself.” She went home to bed and sent for my father.

Later, the same lady who had brought Consuelo arrived, and again we heard a baby cry. My brother and I must have looked like a pair of scared rabbits for my
papá
came out and told us not to be frightened, that the lady had brought us a new sister in her suitcase. When I saw Marta for the first time I thought she was very ugly. I said, “
Ay, mamá
, you should have better asked the lady for a whiter, prettier one.”

My father was very, very happy when his daughters were born. He really would have preferred to have had only girls. He was always more affectionate to my sisters but I didn’t notice it so much then because while my mother was alive my
papá
still loved me. As for Roberto, I don’t remember exactly. My
papá
never did like very dark
people and it was probably on account of Roberto’s dark skin that my father disliked him. But when we were little he was not so severe with us. He spoke to us with a different tone of voice. I guess the worst thing that happened to me and my brother was to grow up, because I was very happy until I was eight.

It was at about that time that I became aware of sexual intercourse. It happened that my
mamá
was lighting the charcoal fire and had sent me next door to borrow the fan blower. I ran off to our neighbor’s house and went in without knocking. There was Pepita in bed with her husband, with her legs up and he with his pants down and everything. I felt embarrassed, I couldn’t tell exactly of what, but I felt that I had surprised them doing something bad. Pepita looked upset, they stopped moving but didn’t change their position. She said, “Yes, take it, it’s over there on the brazier.” Then I went home and it occurred to me to talk about it to my mother.
Ay
! what a spanking she gave me!

After that, I wanted to experience it for myself and tried to get the girls of the
vecindad
to play “
papá
and
mamá
” with me. My mother had a girl to help her in the house, and I played that game with her, whenever we were alone. One day she went to the roof to hang up clothes and I followed her. “Come on,” I said, “let’s do it.” I tried to raise her dress and pull down her pants, and just as she was about to give in, I heard someone tapping at a window. Our house, at that time, faced a stocking factory, and when I turned around to see who was tapping, there were all the factory workers, men and women, at the windows, pointing at us and laughing. Someone shouted, “
Cabrón muchacho
, just look at the little bastard.” Did I leave that roof quickly!

The first day my mother brought me to school I was frightened and burst out crying. When the teacher wasn’t looking, I ran right back home.
Señorita
Lupe, my first teacher, was strict and would throw the eraser at anyone who was out of order. Once she gave me such a blow with a ruler that it broke on my wrist.

That year I met my friend Santiago. He was my guardian angel in school, and used to protect me. When bigger boys hit me, right away I’d tell Santiago, and he would go after them. But he wouldn’t help me against younger boys. He’d say, “Aren’t you ashamed to cry? If he’s smaller than you, beat him up!” Santiago taught me to defend
myself, to swear and use dirty words, and he told me all about what you do to women.

I stayed in that school until the fourth grade. It was there that I got my nickname,
Chino
, because of my slanty eyes. Roberto entered the first grade when I was in the third and from then on I got into lots of fights because of him. Poor kid! Even when he was little he had a hard time! He was always getting into trouble. At recess I would see them dragging him, crying, to the principal’s office to punish him for something, and I would get angry and interfere.

My brother once came to my classroom crying and with his nose bleeding. He said, “Francisco, the Pig, hit me, for nothing at all.” Without a word I went to the Pig’s room and said to him, “Francisco, why did you hit my brother?”

“Because I wanted to, and so what?”

“Well, hit me,” I said, and he hit me. I went at him and gave him a very hard punch. He lunged at me with a knife and if I hadn’t ducked he would surely have cut my face.

They sent for my father; unfortunately it was a Wednesday, his day off, and he was at home. That afternoon I was afraid to go into the house, and stood looking through a crack in the door to see what mood my father was in. But he didn’t hit me that time. He only told me to avoid fights as much as possible.

One Mother’s Day, I came home singing a song we had been rehearsing in school. “Forgive me, dear Mother, because I can’t give you anything but love.” My father was at home and he seemed very proud and happy about something.

“No, son, we can give her something else, because just look at what I bought.” I saw a little radio standing on the wardrobe.

“How nice,
papá
,” I said. “Is it for
mamá
?”

“Yes, son, it’s for
mamá
and for you, too.”

That’s how my father spoke to me then. He had won on his lottery ticket and bought it with the prize money. Afterwards, I came to hate the radio because it caused arguments in the house. My father got angry with my mother for playing it so much. He said it would get out of order and, “Nobody pays for anything around here except me!” He wanted the radio on only when he was at home.

After my mother’s death, my grandmother took care of us for a while. I loved her and, after my mother was gone, she was the only
person who really, truly loved me. She was the only one I went to for advice, the only one who cried if I didn’t eat. Once she said, “Manuelito, you are very willful and you worry me. The day I die you will see that no one else will cry to make you eat.”

My grandmother never hit us, though she sometimes pulled my hair or my ears if I refused to go with her on an errand. My
mamá
had hit us more, especially Roberto, who was very mischievous. Why, once, when my brother wouldn’t come out from under the bed when she called, my mother grabbed the iron and shoved it at him. It hit him right on the head and raised a big bump. Compared to my mother, my grandma was a symbol of tenderness.

My father got along well with my grandma; that is, they never had differences. She taught us to respect him because he fed and supported us. She was always saying that we should appreciate having the kind of father we had, for there were few like him in the world. She gave us good advice about everything and taught us to respect the memory of our mother.

Sometimes my aunt Guadalupe took care of us. One evening my
papá
sent us out to buy candy. I think he expected us to take long, but I came back prematurely and saw my father trying to put his arms around my aunt, by force, right? I believe he was making love to her, and I had surprised them. I don’t think I liked it, but, well, he was my father, no? and I didn’t judge him.

Then my father began to hire women to take care of us. I don’t remember the first servant’s name; she smoked a lot and her teeth were all yellow. Once she was washing and I went and put my hands up under her dress. “No, be quiet, let me alone, go away, or you’ll see what you get, you bloody little bastard.” The old girl didn’t want me to, but I lifted her dress and saw her tail.
Ay!
she had a lot of hair and was ugly.

We moved from the Street of the Painters to a
vecindad
on Cuba Street. Our room was small and dark and very dilapidated, and seemed like a poor place to live. That was where my father met Elena.

I don’t remember the exact numbers of our doors, but let’s suppose we lived in Room No. 1, and Elena lived with her husband, in No. 2. All my
papá
did was to move her from No. 2 to No. 1, and she became his wife. Before that, I almost considered her a playmate. She was very young and pretty, and often asked me to read the comics
to her because she couldn’t read. She was our friend, no? So we felt betrayed when she and my father fell in love. She came to our house as a servant, to cover up the affair, and ended up as our mistress!