If You Try It—I’m Sure You’ll Like It!
1,2,3..then Me
In late August of 1942, while the United States and most of the male population of Houston, and every other city in the United States were locked in mortal combat with Germany, Japan and Italy, a scrawny 6-pound male child was born to Bob and Evelyn De Leon. It happened during the heat of the early afternoon in a small one room house in a pitifully poverty stricken neighborhood. After about six hours of agonizing maternal labor, an unlicensed Mexican mid-wife assisted the simple brown-skinned, twenty-four year old woman deliver her fourth child.
Evelyn’s first three attempts at motherhood had failed. The children, all boys, had not survived, each succumbing to death in different ways. The first, born almost exactly three years earlier, weighed in at a shocking thirteen pounds. The delivery and the preceding labor had been excruciating for both mother and child, and it had been nothing more than a miracle that Evelyn had survived the labor alone. Born at home and attended to by another even less qualified mid-wife, he lived less than a week. To my knowledge the cause of death was never really determined officially. At least I’ve never seen any kind of documentation such as a death certificate or even a Certificate of Live Birth. Worse, no records exist of his burial or final disposition.
“He was just too big to breathe”, was the general explanation offered by the mid-wife and my mother’s older sisters to those who cared enough to ask.
Evelyn, barely clinging to life herself due to the unimaginable torture she had endured giving natural birth to this extremely large boy, was never fully aware of his birth, much less his demise.
When she was finally coherent enough to ask about her son, she was told, “He’s just too big and he’s having trouble breathing.” Robert, who had been celebrating his first son’s birth at a local tavern for a few days, came home to find a house full of Evelyn’s relatives. That alone soured his already hangover-induced disposition, and he gruffly asked to see his son. When told of his loss he immediately left the house to seek solace from those who understood him the best: his drinking buddies and various hangers on.
Because of the total lack of documentation I was never sure whether my big brother was given a proper funeral (although I prefer to think he was), because no one would ever discuss the details of his birth or death beyond the fact that he couldn’t breathe. Without any solid information my young mind was left to imagine what it would have, or should have, been like:
He would’ve been laid to rest in one of those miniature light blue felt covered caskets, lined in soft white satin, a little fringed pillow supporting his head. A soft round face with just a hint of a smile, chubby little hands laid over his chest with fingers barely inter-twined; a silver chain and crucifix laced gently around his wrists. There would’ve been a little white cotton headpiece carefully positioned just above the almost transparent eyebrows, and a delicate little white satin frock would’ve been slipped over his oversized body.
In the large dimly lit room with softly flowing organ music, someone from the small group assembled in the first two pews would’ve stepped up to the dark mahogany pulpit positioned just behind the small casket to speak about the baby’s brief little life. The eulogy would’ve been very short, not much history, but surely a reference to his not being able to breathe properly due to his size would’ve been made.
Then slowly the small and darkly dressed crowd would’ve filed out following the two youngish strong dark men carrying the little blue box out to the hearse. A short drive to the burial plot marked by a swaying green tarp bordered in a tan fringe announcing the burial home’s name and surrounded by just a few folding chairs. No pulpit here as everything that could’ve been said, had already been said.
Serenaded by the sound of morning birds chirping their cheerful songs into the still air the little blue coffin would’ve been lowered into the soft brown earth. His mother, still not fully recovered from the terribly long and painful labor, and supported by her sisters, would’ve tearfully dropped a single white rose and a small handful of gravelly soil onto the now settled coffin.
A few days later a nice little stone, announcing his name, birth and death dates would appear at the head of the small mound of turned earth, forever mark his resting place.
Try as I might, my imagination was never able to make out his name on the stone. And for as long as I would live my brother would forever remain nameless and faceless and totally unknown.
Yet, to this day I still grieve his loss.
Once, during a visit by my aunt Janie and my aunt Lydia the subject of my brother’s birth and subsequent death accidentally came up after my mother had gone to the kitchen to get some iced tea. Realizing that they had brought up a subject not to be discussed in front of me they quickly tried to change the subject.
Seeing the opening I asked, “Tia, did you know I had an older brother?”
Looking a bit uncomfortable, and with a quick glance to her sister, she responded, “Mira, Frankie, you’ll just have to ask your mother or father about that.”
“But they never talk to me about that. And when I ask they just ignore me.” I whined.
“Bueno, it’s not for us to say, Panchito,” added Aunt Lydia in a soft whisper. “When you get older you have to have your mom or dad tell you everything. But now is not the time to talk about that.”
Entering the room with the iced tea my mother told me to go into the kitchen where she’d poured my iced tea into an old jelly jar and left it on the kitchen table. That would be the last conversation I ever had with anyone in my family about my oldest brother.
Evelyn’s second pregnancy ended in a miscarriage the year after her first baby’s death. She had been far enough along to know that the aborted child had been male, but the details of the pregnancy and the cause of its loss were also never openly discussed. As before I accidently learned of this event only by overhearing an angry exchange between my father and my mother. I recall the argument was heated and vindictive, and the subject of the lost child had been brought up in an effort to hurt feelings and open old painful wounds. After my father had left the house and all was quiet, I heard my mother’s handkerchief covered sobs and moans, and I knew his words had achieved their intended purpose.
Hoping that the third time would finally prove successful, her next pregnancy was almost carried to full term. However, to everyone’s great disappointment and sorrow, the child was still-born. The suspected cause for the tragedy was apparently due to a heavy fall while walking back home from a visit to her sister’s house a few blocks away.
An inattentive driver, at the very last second, noticed the small pregnant woman trying to navigate the grass strip between the roadway and a deep ditch on the right. Jerking the steering wheel sharply left in an attempt to avoid a direct hit and wildly banging the horn button, the driver managed to narrowly miss the now airborne pedestrian.
Evelyn’s peripheral vision had caught the speeding car bearing down on her from behind at the same time she heard the horn and the tortured sound of tire rubber sliding on dry concrete. Hoping to avoid being hit directly she took half a step right and dove off the steep embankment. Landing heavily on her stomach as she slid down the muddy incline she rolled over onto her back and splashed into the murky water briefly losing consciousness.
The severe pain in her abdomen and the shock of cold water brought her back around, and she found herself half submerged, with one shoe missing and her mouth full of bloody mud. Pushing herself up onto her elbows she saw that her dress had been ripped off her right shoulder and the bracelet Bob had given her a few months ago was gone.
It took all her strength to crawl back up the slippery incline, pausing frequently to let the sharp blasts of abdominal pain wash over her body. Burying her fingers in the soft mud and bringing her skinned knees up as far as they would go under her swollen belly, she would resume her slow climb as soon as the throbbing waves would subside. Finally reaching the top she thought she saw a couple of women running to her just before losing consciousness again.
She knew she should’ve gone to the hospital, but having saved just enough money to pay the midwife for the upcoming birth the decision was made to just nurse her superficial wounds and stay in bed. Besides, after a couple of days the abdominal pain had disappeared completely and the baby’s kicks had suddenly ended. Although not discovered until the baby had been stillborn, her fall had done extensive damage to the fetus—including causing the umbilical to wrap around the neck, slowly choking it to death. Evelyn had lost another son.
The following year she found herself pregnant again and to hear my mother tell it, her pregnancy with me was more of a “waiting for the other shoe to drop” event than one of impending joy. When I finally did arrive on a hot and muggy August afternoon, much was made of the fact that I had arrived all the proper appendages in place. I was shaped somewhat normally, and to everyone’s surprise was actually breathing. However, the bad news, yet to come, was that I turned out to be quite the sickly child: skinny, plagued with bouts of whooping cough, anemia, ear infections and asthma. Frightened that death would eventually lay claim to her fourth child, my mother begin to look for help to assist her in the mysterious art of motherhood.
Go Ahead—You’ll Like It!
Although the surrounding neighborhood was Hispanic and predominantly Catholic, there was a tiny Pentecostal church a few blocks away. The congregation was small, but noisy and enthusiastic, and services were held twice a week with the main gathering on Sunday nights. One of the members of the flock, a Señora Sánchez, was a small round woman; age fifty, or so, who had subsequently lost her husband very early in their marriage without ever having had any children of her own. After his death at the hands of one of his drinking partners at a local bar she vowed to commit her life to three things: one—to forever remain a widow; two—to dedicate her life to Christ and the Pentecostal religion; and third—to devote all of her maternal energies and instincts to all the little children in the world.
So while the small and vibrant Pentecostal congregation was celebrating the life and death of Jesus Christ in the main hall, she could be found in a small back room of the church babysitting the children of the attending families. Although devoutly religious it was in that little room, surrounded by children of various ages, that she found her true happiness.
Early one Saturday morning while shopping at a small fruit market in the neighborhood, my mother noticed, and was approached by a plainly dressed, middle aged, slightly overweight woman. Señora Sánchez had seen my mother several times on those Saturdays, but was mostly interested in the little boy she always had close to her side. Finally dredging up the courage to strike up a conversation, she approached my mother and asked how old the child was. After a few minutes of exploratory prattle the woman had learned the child’s name and age, where they lived, and who Evelyn was married to. Finally getting to the subject that had prompted her to begin a conversation with my mother in the first place she asked her where she attended church. “We don’t attend any church.” My mother plainly answered.
Seeing the opening she had been hoping for, Señora Sánchez immediately extended an invitation to the upcoming Sunday school service at their little church a few blocks away. “It’s very informal,” she added, “and we always welcome visitors; especially young families. We have a little nursery in the back where I take care of the children while the parents attend the service.” She added. “I’m in charge of them so if you and your husband come on Sunday I’d be glad to take care of this little one.” stroking the child’s head gently as she spoke.
“¿Verdad mijito?” (Isn’t that right, little one?)
Shying away, the little boy pulled closer to his mother and hid his face in her dress.
Evelyn, having already lost three babies, and with the fourth one seemingly stepping on death’s door every time he coughed or got a fever, was already in the early stages of the dark emptiness and desperation that would ultimately follow her to her grave.
Thinking that maybe going to church might help her with those gloomy moods she was starting to fall into more often than not, she quickly accepted the invitation. After all, she thought, married life for me has not turned out to be what I imagined it would be.
For her, that initial exhilaration of sharing her life with someone other than her sisters and brother had quickly been extinguished after about the third year of marriage, after Bob began not coming home after work on Fridays. And now he seemed a lot more interested in spending his time, and the precious little money they had, with his friends—none of whom she’d ever been given the opportunity to meet. Whenever she got up enough courage to ask him where and with whom he’d spent the night he would get terribly angry and say a lot of insulting and spiteful things. Afterwards he’d leave again.
At first she thought that maybe the loss of the babies had affected him so much that he had needed to drink and spend time with other people just to forget. But when little Frankie had been born alive Bob’s drinking had not lessened at all. In fact, she thought it’d gotten worse. So for her, married life had become an agonizingly painful and horribly lonely experience. What with nursing the boy through his many illnesses, keeping their little house clean and tidy, cooking mostly for her and the boy, and endlessly waiting for Bob to come home at all hours of the night had all but destroyed her youthful dreams of a happy and secure marriage. She needed something else in her life—and that something had maybe just shown up.
Without hesitation Evelyn told Señora Sánchez that she and Frankie would be happy to attend the church service tomorrow morning.
“And, of course, your husband will come too?” Señora Sánchez asked.
“Bueno pués, no se.” Evelyn responded. “He’s very busy with work—in fact, he’s at work now even though it’s Saturday.” she lied. “So he’ll probably want to stay home and rest all day tomorrow. No, it’ll just be me and Frankie, I think.”
“¡Sí, como no!” Señora Sánchez gleefully said, smiling broadly at Frankie. “I can’t wait to see you both there tomorrow! Mira, el servicio starts at nine, and la Sunday school begins at ten. Then afterwards, around eleven, we sing some hymns, y el pastor preaches el sermon. Terminamos at noon.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Evelyn said happily. “Bob will want me to be home to make lunch by at least by one. He likes to have everything on the table when he wakes up tired after working hard all day Saturday.”
With that they said their goodbyes, hugged briefly, and Señora Sánchez gave Frankie a noisy wet kiss on his forehead. Turning on her heel and dragging the boy behind her, Evelyn’s brow furrowed and her lips tightened with the worry of how and when to break the news to Bob. With any luck he may not even be home yet, giving her a chance to polish up her delivery.
Walking quickly and deep in thought, she ignored the fact that Frankie was having a bit of trouble keeping up. Not hearing his cries and ignoring the sharp tugs he was giving her hand every time he tripped she thought, Well, I’ll just tell him the truth. I want to go! And, if he doesn’t want to go with me I can always just go on my own. I won’t let him talk me out of it, or let him stop me from going. After all, what’s the harm? It’ll be something different, and God knows I need something different in my life. And if Frankie gets cranky like he always does, there’ll be someone there to watch and take care of him. So, that’s that!!
Señora Sánchez, looking at the young mother quickly walking away gave silent thanks to her God. Gracias Jesucristo, she prayed, you have brought me another niño. Hurrying to finish her shopping she couldn’t wait to tell her church sisters and brothers (and especially the pastor) that their small membership may soon grow just a little larger.
Knowing what I know now it’s not hard for me to understand why my mother would so readily agree to go to church. The loss of her first three children, a marriage that had so far proven to be very disappointing, and a future that was looking more and more unsure, would’ve surely made her want to look for anything that may offer some kind of change in her life. But what’s really puzzling is how she ever convinced my father to accompany her to that first Sunday service.
A Good Start—A Bad Ending
For the next year Bob, Evelyn, and little skinny me faithfully attended that little church. Prayer services, speaking in tongues, special offerings, baptisms, both spiritual and watery, and near exorcisms failed to improve my health. As if to spite the Pentecostal membership’s very spirituality I just ended up getting sicker. Croupy, phlegmy and prone to high fevers and diarrhea, I resisted every effort the little congregation made to implore God to cure my ills.
One Sunday morning, and not without some warning, Bob and Evelyn just stopped going to that little Pentecostal church.
The end had started quite gradually. At first the warm and sincere attention paid us by the congregation was pleasing to my parents. Being the newest, but more importantly, the youngest family attending the church gave us a certain superstar status within a membership that was comprised of mostly much older couples. After a few weeks of attending church my father had all but stopped drinking and staying out all night; and instead began to give my mother money on Friday for her to go clothes shopping for us on Saturday.
On Sundays we were easily the best dressed family in church: me, in little suits with short pants and suspenders; my mother in natty little hats, silk hose and heels; and dad in dark suits and silk ties. Things were going so good that even the weekend arguments between my parents had all but ceased.
Then, one day….
To him, I think that the church going basically began to interfere with his desire to impress and entertain people. Probably the necessity to at least appear somewhat devout began to put a serious dent in the “social” side of his personality. He was extremely outgoing and really loved raucous company. Telling jokes and generally being the life of the party was certainly his strong suit. In church he wasn’t able to really be himself and so that quickly became uncomfortable. Since the majority of the membership was much older and seemed to be a whole lot more serious about spiritual devotion than he was, he began to get bored.
At first, the church services had only been held a couple of days a week—Sunday being the most important attendance day. But as the membership grew additional services were added during the week. Now, the pushy pastor had expected them to attend church on Tuesday and Friday nights, in addition to Sunday morning. Not long after, Sunday evening services had also been added. That constant back and forth to church services began to wear on him, along with the insistence that he must very soon dedicate his life to Jesus by formally declaring salvation and being baptized.
He must have thought that anyone with any sense could see that after working hard all week for that son of a bitching boss at the paint shop he needed–no, deserved, some entertainment; and that did not include having to listen to some ancient holy roller accuse him of being a sinner. God, church, and the Pentecostals were certainly not even getting close to providing the lifestyle that Bob felt wanted.
It was excruciating for him to have to sit there and listen to a bunch of stupid Mexicans telling him (indirectly, but with accusing eyes from the pulpit) that because he was a sinner he was for sure going to spend eternity burning in Hell.
Well, what the hell did they know, he thought? As far as he could see, they, for the most part, were in worse shape that he was. Poor, illiterate, and laborers, they were. He at least had a decent job. And, By God, he was no Mexican. So what if he wanted to spend his money having a good time? Why did they expect him to give them ten percent of this hard-earned wages? Was that supposed to get him into heaven? What did they know?
My mother, on the other hand, had a whole different perspective on the issue. For the price of having to sit through a few fire and brimstone sermons a week, listening to a bunch of off key hymn-singing, and joining a prayer circle with a group of grandmotherly women, she had her hubby home every night and a bunch of new clothes to boot. Not a bad trade-off.
But as time went on she began to notice that Bob was losing interest in this church thing. Where at first he would talk to her about how interesting so-and-so had been during Sunday school, now he was constantly criticizing how long winded and boring the lesson had been. It pissed him off that after church services he’d be surrounded by most of the male membership and harassed about his soul not being saved. And, what about that tithing business? It seemed that all of a sudden the pastor was more interested in him being saved so he could devote his life to Christ and pay ten percent of his pay.
She started to worry.
Apparently sensing that the DeLeón family was starting to fade away, Señora Sanchez put together a little holy raiding party and made some attempts at home visits to try to reinvigorate my parents. But in spite of their tenacity they met with a disappointed and now clearly panicked young woman. Seeing them pull up in their station wagon, my father, rather than face them would go out the back door and beat a hasty retreat. It was quickly becoming a lost cause, and the little religious group slowly began to understand.
Instead of attending every service, my father began to miss a few here and there. My mother still made the effort by asking one of the sisters to come by and give her a ride to the church, but my dad refused to go. After a while my mother ran out of steam and stopped attending also. The little visiting group eventually got the hint and stopped coming.
A few months later we moved to the next, in a painfully long list of shabby rental homes, and my father resumed, and with great determination, began to perfect his drinking binges.
During the next ten years I went on to develop a full blown case of asthma, broke my right arm, suffered horrible debilitating stomach aches, and cultivated a hearty case of athlete’s foot. That last malady kept me out of school for three weeks one time so I didn’t think it was so bad. I was skinny, suffered from heart palpitations and could throw up at will. But against all odds, I survived. And for that my mother was eternally grateful.
*******
More than five hundred Sunday morning services had passed when Señora Sanchez, seated in her favorite pew, turned to her left and spotted a young teenage boy sitting behind her. Dressed in a worn white shirt and badly knotted tie, he was nervously wiping his sweating face with a thin handkerchief. She took note of the boy’s hooded brown eyes and the deep dimple on his chin. His profile was tantalizingly familiar. But it was when he turned to his right and looked directly at her that she was sure.
Staring intently at him she caught his eye. Smiling widely she nodded knowingly and thought: you’re him, aren’t you? You’re Robert and Evelyn’s son, Frankie. Praise God, praise Jesus.