First Contact
Feel Me, Touch Me
I
It was a little after one in the afternoon when we turned the corner and pulled into Robert’s driveway. By then the temperature must’ve been well over ninety degrees, although I never had any way of really knowing since we didn’t have a thermometer, or a television for weather news; and our Philco console radio didn’t come on until well after the dinner hour. But it just felt hot and steamy.
Looking over my shoulder and out through the small back window of the car I saw that my dad’s car was gone and our front door was open.
“Would you like to come in and have some lunch with us?” Robert’s grandmother asked as her husband stopped the car and got out to open their driveway gate. “We have plenty, you know.”
“No thank you. I’m sure my mother has lunch waiting for me.” I smoothly lied.
Robert knew better. “Don’t lie, ese. You never eat! That’s why you’re so skinny.” Punching my bony shoulder with his skinned up knuckles, “Frankie The Bear!”
Getting out of the car as fast as I could I retorted, “No, I’m just a picky eater! My mother gives me plenty to eat; and besides I don’t want to be fat when I grow up.”
“Don’t worry about that, vato. You’re never going to grow up anyway. You’re going to blow away and no one will be able to find you.” Robert teased, as his grandfather closed the car door and put the little coupe in gear.
“Ha! Ha!” Were the only two words I could think of to say.
“Bueno Frankie,” his grandfather said as he got back into the front seat. “Ask your parents if you can come with us to the evening service tonight. If they say you can, just come over here about six, or so. The service starts at seven.” With that, he engaged the clutch and the coupe crunched up their shell driveway toward the small one car garage.
“OK, I’ll ask.” I said, waving and hurrying across the street.
I bounded up the stairs and pulled open the slightly unhinged screen door.
“Mom!” I yelled as I pulled my shirt up out of my pants with one hand while yanking on the red tie with the other. “Mom, ¿dónde estás?” (Where are you?)
The house was a little cooler due to our always having all the windows open, letting what breeze there was outside sift through the mesh screens and sink quickly pushing the moist heat up to the ceiling.
From the kitchen I heard a very soft, “¿Eh? Aquí estoy, mijo.” Her voice sounded strangely forced.
She was sitting at our small dining table on the right side of the kitchen, in the chair closest to the window. Angled away from the table she was wistfully looking out the window onto our little side yard. Legs crossed widely, her right elbow resting on one knee her chin resting in the palm of her hand. On the table her left hand worried a small balled up handkerchief.
Keeping her face away from me she said, “¿Quieres some agua? No tengo nada de comer, pero si tienes hambre puedes ir a ‘ca Henry’s a comprar baloney en crédito.” (I don’t have anything to eat, but if you’re hungry you can go to Henry’s to buy some bologna on credit.) With that, and still keeping her face away from me, her shoulders shuddered slightly.
“No mamá, no tengo mucho hambre. Todavía hay un poco de cereal en la caja. Hay bastante. Me lo cómo con un vaso de agua.” (No mom, I’m not very hungry. There’s still a bit of cereal in the box. There’s plenty. I can eat that with a glass of water.)
A loud wet sob escaped her dropping her head into her hands she quickly stifled it with the balled up handkerchief. “¡Ay, mijo! ¡Mi pobrecito mijo!” (Oh, my son! My poor son!) Unable to contain herself anymore she buried her face in both hands and cried bitterly; her body shaking the table and causing the saltshaker to tip over.
“That’s OK, mommy.” I said quietly, not knowing what else to say or do. I walked over to the sink and poured myself a glass of water. Grabbing the almost empty box of Post Toasties off the counter I walked out the back door to the small porch to sit down in the shade and eat my lunch.
I could still hear my mother crying sadly in the little kitchen as I slowly crunched the dry flakes and washed them down with the tepid water.
Later….
I must’ve fallen asleep on the porch because I next remember my mother wiping my face with a cool wet washcloth. I was hot.
“Ay mijo, te vas a quemar.” (You’re going to burn.) You fell asleep and now the sun’s in your face. Come on, let’s go inside.” She helped me up and I saw that the empty Post Toasties box and my glass of water were gone.
“Come, let’s get you out of these clothes.” She said while guiding me back into the kitchen.
“Mom, where’s dad?”
“Oh, you know. This morning after you left he said he was going to go around the corner and would be right back. But he’s still gone. I don’t know.” Those last words came out with a little shudder.
Whenever my dad said he was “going around the corner”, that was code for: “I’m going on a drunken bender and don’t know when I’ll be home.” Christ!! Even I knew that!
“OK,” I said, not knowing what else to add. “Robert’s grandparents want me to go with them to church again tonight…for the evening service. Can I go?”
“Oh, you really want to go?” She asked. “Why?”
“Well, it was kinda fun. But a little weird too.”
“Weird? What do you mean weird, mijo?” She queried.
“Well,” I started, “the class we had to attend was a little boring, but the singing was great. What was weird though, was when the people all started praying really loud. Suddenly they started speaking in another language and some of the people started falling down on the floor. It was mostly the women that did that.”
“O sí,” she mused, “when your dad and I went there a long time ago I remember them doing that. Your dad didn’t like it and thought the people were being possessed by the devil.”
“Yeah”, I said excitedly, “there was a woman there—a Mrs. Sánchez—and she said she remembered you and dad. She even said she remembered me; but I was pretty little then.”
“Sí, I think I remember her. Eras un bebito.” She explained. (You were a baby).
She seemed to be a bit more composed, but her eyes were still a bit swollen and she still had a very sad look on her face.
“Anyway,” I continued, “the lady at the church invited me for tonight’s service and Robert’s abuelos said they would take me. Can I go?”
“Bueno pués,” she said, “I don’t know what you could wear. I could wash your shirt but it wouldn’t be dry by the time you have to go. Can you wear another color shirt?”
“I don’t care. Maybe dad has something in his chester drawers.”
She broke into a little smile for the first time that afternoon. “No, mijo. Tu daddy’s shirts are all too big. Maybe I can find something. But now you should take a bath. I’ll heat some water. ‘¡Pronto!’ What time do you have to go to Robert’s?”
“Um,” I mumbled, “I think around six. What time is it now?”
“Son como las cuatro.” (It’s about four.) “Hurry so you can be on time.”
She walked out of the kitchen and I followed her into the next room to search the “chester drawers” for a shirt.
“¿Mamá, quieres ir conmigo?” I asked, tentatively. (Mom, you want to go with me?)
“No mijo, your daddy might come home and he’ll wonder where I am.”
“Mom!” I said, a little angry, “you know dad won’t be home until maybe early tomorrow morning or late tonight. And he shouldn’t care if you’re home or not! He goes out all the time and he never tells you where he goes or when he’ll be home!”
“¡Ay, no…no puedo!” (Oh no, I can’t) She replied plaintively while glancing doe-like toward the front door. “I have to be here when he gets home. He’ll be really mad if he comes home early and I’m not home. Anyway, come on, we need to hurry so I can get you dressed for church.”
I wanted to say more but I knew she’d made up her mind. That night, and long after I’d returned from the evening service, she quietly sat on our little couch, as she would do for thousands of future nights, watching the evening fade into an empty darkness with only the faraway croaking of bull frogs and the sporadic barking of chained up dogs to keep her company. Staring for hours through the sagging window screen in that gloomy little unlit house, her heart jumping with false hope every time a set of headlights would turn onto our little shell street, she would finally succumb to slumber’s soft healing salve and drift off into her world of unfulfilled dreams. After having done that for so many years and in so many different houses that, first her mind, then her body, could take no more—finally breaking down and turning her into an old, forlorn, hollow woman.
II
Having dug up a clean shirt and re-pressing my trousers, my mother called out to me: “Pronto Frankie! It’s almost six and you have to go pretty soon.”
As I came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, my long straight black hair still dripping water down my bony back, I was instantly hit with the succulent aroma of fried bologna. Somewhere between my spine and my belly button a deep rumbling reverberated and my saliva glands woke up and began to flood my mouth.
“Mira mijo.” My mom proudly announced. “While you were taking your long bath I went to Henry’s Store and got us some baloney. I know how you like it fried up, so here it is!!” With her eyes wide with excitement and her tongue slurping her upper lip, she stood there, both hands holding the ancient black iron skillet out in front of her—the four slices of baloney looking like meat cups, spitting and popping and wafting out waves of fragrantly spicy fried grease.
“Wow!! Can I eat mine now?” I asked breathlessly.
“No, mijo.” Now turning back to the stove to turn off the burner. “You go and get dressed now. Hurry! By the time you do that I’ll have your baloney on a plate. ¡Ándale!” (Get going!)
Running through the kitchen I found my newly pressed clothes on top of the “chester drawers”. Next to them was a pair of clean white socks and my “next to best” boxer shorts.
“Mom!” I yelled from the next room. “Do I wear the same tie that I wore this morning? I don’t know how to do the knot!”
“Don’t worry! Just wear the shirt with the collar open.” She instructed from the kitchen. “You already wore a tie this morning so you don’t need one tonight.”
“OK.” I wondered if that was some kind of tie rule. Once you wear one early you don’t have to wear one later. Sounded good to me.
Finally dressed, I rushed into the kitchen and sat down at our little table.
“¿Ya estás listo?” She asked. (Are you ready?)
“Sí mamá. ¡Pronto, tengo hambre!” I whined. (Hurry, I’m hungry!)
She shoved a plate under my nose with three of the steaming cupped bologna slices. Looking up I saw that she had a smaller plate in her left hand with the remaining slice. Pulling her chair out she sat heavily down and looked up at me.
“Well, start eating!” She snapped.
“Pero, I have three and you only have one.” I explained.
“So?” She said, pushing her shoulders forward in an “I don’t know” motion. “You’re too skinny so you need to eat more. Go, eat!”
“No, mama!” I said as I gingerly picked up one of the cupped bologna slices and placed it on her plate. “We have to share and share alike! That’s what the guy said in Sunday school this morning. Share with your brothers and man, and….or, something like that.”
“¿Sí?” As she looked at me quizzically. “Chair and chair alike? Mira…..how funny. OK, two for you and two for me, ¿verdad? I like that saying better than the ‘chair’ one. Anyway, ¡Come!” (Eat!).
Cutting up the slices with my spoon (I ate everything with a spoon) I practically inhaled the bologna. Still chewing the last spoonful I got up and took my plate to the sink. Putting it into a small plastic tub that my mom always had in there with soapy water for soaking dirty dishes, I grabbed an old jelly-jar glass and half-filled it with water. Washing the meat down I burped and headed for the bathroom to try to plaster my hair down with a few dabs of strategically smeared Royal Crown Hair Pomade. It smelled good too.
While trying to glue down a few errant strands of hair my mind drifted and I began to think of the beautiful red haired Joni. I wonder if I’ll get a chance to talk to her again. I thought. No, I think this time Robert will probably horn in. He’s much better looking anyway, and has muscles. Then a second inner voice sounding a lot like Jerry said: But didn’t she make a face and call him a thug when you mentioned his name? Hmm, that was true.
Breaking my concentration and making me jump a little my mom yelled, “¡Oye Pancho, ya te tienes que ir! (You have to go now!) “¡Ándale!”
With that, I gave myself one last look in the yellow tinged mirror and headed for the front door.
With a last visual going over, a final two-thumbed eyebrow wash, and a quick peck on the cheek my mother pushed me out onto the porch and I headed across the street to Robert’s house.
III
When our little group entered the church I saw that the same men that had been up on the altar/stage in the morning were again seated in their same chairs, but tonight the Reverend Villa, instead of making a grand entrance through the front doors, was already sitting in a larger chair in the center of the stage about ten feet directly behind the pulpit. I spotted his wife, this time dressed in a fetching beige suit, sitting in the reserved area of her pew. Joni was on the piano playing, unaccompanied by the rest of the band, looking like some fairy princess in a fluffy yellow dress and matching shoes; with a circlet of tiny yellow flowers weaved into her bright red hair.
It was noticeably cooler in the little church that evening as the service kicked off a little bit after seven. The same musical group was up on the left side of the stage, but that night they’d been joined by an older, and quite large man, holding a guitar-like instrument almost as large as he was. The body of the guitar was shaped much like any concert model—blond wood, with a dark rosewood fret board, but was at least a foot deep from sound hole to back. Un-amplified, it sported four widely spaced strings and had a ridiculously short neck. I would later learn that it was a bass guitar commonly used in mariachi bands, and was called a “bajo sexto”. It did put out a rivetingly deep driving bass sound and rounded out the little ensemble quite nicely.
Attendance was quite a bit higher than it had been that morning, and the folks seemed a little better dressed. Remembering my earlier conversation with Robert I curiously started scanning the crowd for more red hair.
In the last pew on the left side of the church I spotted two boys, one heavier than the other, sitting next to each other and looking really bored. There was no mistaking them for anyone other than Joni’s brothers; both with fair complexions and shockingly red hair. I tapped Robert on the arm, “Mira, those vatos in the back. They Joni’s brothers?”
After casually turning his head and glancing over this left shoulder, searching them with his gaze, he turned back and said, “Who else would they be?”
“Just making sure.” I mumbled.
“Why? You wanna go talk to them?” Robert teased.
“NO!” I responded, hoping he was joking. “Do you know them, I mean…have you ever talked to them?”
“No, ese,” he said, stifling a yawn, “I don’t even really know the sister either. I tried to talk to her once but she just ignored me and walked away. But you—you got through to her on your first try!” This, accompanied by a poke on my shoulder.
“¡Órale, Robert! That’s enough! You know I wouldn’t stand a chance with someone like her….you know, like a girlfriend.”
“Frankie, from what I’ve seen, you wouldn’t stand a chance with the ugliest girl in Houston. You’re smart, ese, but not girl smart; you know?” He laughed his typical mocking bray-like laugh and popped me on the back of the head.
Mercifully the music ended, and after a few moments one of the men on the stage stood up and walked to the pulpit. Motioning with his hands, he asked everyone to rise for a prayer to dedicate the service to the Lord Jesus Christ.
Except for the absence of classes, the service was not unlike the earlier one that day: Praying, singing, and the passing of the baskets. Then, just when I thought Reverend Villa was about to stand to deliver the sermon, another one of the seated men stood and took over the pulpit. He then announced that the service was now open to “testimonios”. (Testimonials.)
Before I had a chance to ask Robert what that meant, several hands went up in the audience. The man now leading the service pointed to someone and said, “Bueno hermana, díganos su testimonio.” (OK sister, give us your testament.)
A middle-aged woman several pews ahead of us stood. Raising her right hand she took a deep breath and began to recite a verse from what I later learned was the Twenty-Third Psalm: “…aunque ande en valle de sombra de muerte…” (…yea I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…). Finishing her recitation to a ragged chorus of holy exaltations from the congregation she paused momentarily then began a rambling discourse on how the Lord had performed miracles on her and her family’s life. She spoke of nothing in particular, just a general “…and He’s kept us all well and with food on the table and clothes on our backs….” kind of discourse.
All the while, and as she spoke, her right hand remained raised. Slowly her voice began to waver and increase in volume. Her words began to run together and her head stared to rock from side to side. As she became more animated the congregation’s exclamations also rose in intensity. It was difficult to hear exactly what she was saying through all the noise the people were making, but then without warning the woman raised both arms straight up and began to jump up and down. Her voice changed, dropping a full octave and increasing to an unbelievable volume, and then the strange language began to pour out of her mouth. The place went nuts.
Screaming, howling, people dropping to the floor, foreign words coming at me from all directions—and I began to panic just a bit. When the bedlam started everyone stood up, and so did I. Now I looked around and saw that Robert was still sitting down staring blankly ahead, although his grandparents were standing quietly with their heads bowed. I quickly sat back down.
“Robert,” I whispered, “this is what they did this morning.”
Turning and freezing me with his eyes he said coldly, “Ese, this is what they do all the time.”
“Why?” I wondered out loud.
“It’s what they say is the Holy Ghost.” He explained, looking at his nails.
“Have your abuelos ever done that?”
“I don’t think so.” as he turned to look at them. “At least I’ve never seen them do that.”
“Well, I think it’s a little scary. What’re they saying?”
“I don’t know vato. It’s another language.” He said with a smirk and a shake of his head.
“Funny.” But I really didn’t think it was funny. It was strange…in a scary kind of way.
I wanted to see what the red haired boys were doing, but with everyone standing up it was hard to see anything behind me. So I stayed scrunched down and finally everything started to die down.
Slowly, one by one, people started to sit. Everyone around me was thanking God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, and Jehovah for the holy blessing. I saw a couple of people helping a frail looking old woman get out from under a pew where she’d ended up after falling. She was still shaking, eyes red and watery, but continuously thanking the Lord.
Everyone finally settled down and the man up on the pulpit seemed to want to take back control of the service.
“Bueno,” he sighed, “gracias a Dios por la bendición.” (thanks to God for the blessing.)
Looking around the congregation he asked, “¿Quién más quiere testificar?” (Who else would like to testify?)
Oh no, I thought. Not again! I looked quickly back at Robert. He was staring at the floor rubbing the small blue cross tattooed on his hand between his thumb and forefinger.
Another scattering of hands went up. The man pointed to a younger man in his thirties.
“Sí hermano, ¡díganos!” He prompted, with a flourish of his hands.
The man stood up and raised his right hand. He also began by reciting a verse from the bible then launched into a rambling testimony regarding the loss of a job and how God had helped him find another one within a week. I guess his delivery wasn’t up to the congregation’s standards, as the smattering of affirmations was not very enthusiastic and actually sounded a lot like, “OK, we get it! Hurry up and finish.”
He ended up by trailing off in both volume and fervor and finally sighed out a, “Gracias a Dios, amen” before tentatively sitting down.
Then as if it had been choreographed, a succession of kids began standing up quickly, one right after the other, all reciting well memorized bible verses. As soon as one would finish and sit down another one would pop up, recite a verse and sit down. Some bible verses were very short, (God is love), and others went on and on, breathlessly delivered while the child stared straight ahead, bolstered by the congregation’s hearty verbal approvals the longer the recitation went on.
When no one else got up for a few seconds, and after the last little person had spit out his verse and sat back down, Joni suddenly started playing some happy sounding little mini-hymn. Robert later told me they call these “coritos”, or “little choruses.” Re-energized, everyone really got into these with great gusto. Tambourines banging, hands clapping, and feet tapping, the crowd rocked on with the band; and even the old guy with the bajo sexto stood up from his folding chair and heartily slapped his instrument in perfect time, eliciting from it a deep and heavy bass thump that drove the song vigorously. I noticed that Joni, who had started all this anyway, had also been swept up in the musical excitement and was bobbing her head rhythmically and bouncing joyfully on the piano bench.
After the corito had finally come to an exhaustive end the crowd sat down and the paper fans magically reappeared—each frantically thrashing the warm soggy air that had been generated by the throng’s vigor, but accomplishing very little other than to stir it up and recirculate it around the auditorium. I glanced back to where the Villa brothers had been sitting but they were no longer there. A few more kids got up and recited their verses, followed by a few more coritos, and finally it was over; silence for about thirty seconds.
Taking his cue, the man leading the service stepped up and introduced the Reverend Villa. Acknowledging the intro he looked around and straightened up his perfectly knotted tie and slowly got up from his chair. Taking the pulpit and opening his white leather bible he began leafing through it, his head down and his brow furrowed, as if he had lost his place. Stopping momentarily, and seemingly having found what he was looking for, he smoothed down the page and solemnly looked up at his flock. He seemed to take stock of every person in the congregation while his hands tightly gripped the front corners of the pulpit. Taking a deep breath he began.
“Hermanos, Dios nos a bendecido esta noche. Me ha dado el mensaje esta noche que Él quiere que les dé a ustedes.” (Brothers/sisters, God has blessed us tonight. He has given me the message that He wants me to give to all of you.) From the Book of James he read a few verses, paused after closing his eyes, then quietly began his sermon.
Although still very dynamic, and dressed immaculately, he seemed a little less energetic than he’d been that morning, and moved around the altar/stage with a bit less vigor. Less like a fiery preacher and more like a learned professor, he spoke to each word in the verses he’d read—delivering an elucidation of what St. James had really meant to say in his letters. Ever the faithful, the congregation punctuated each pause in his sermon with a scattering of amen and halleluiah; here and there a baby cried and a few people coughed.
I found myself drifting off in spite of the heat and the occasional numbing of my butt on the rock hard pew, and I fought to keep my eyes open. I noted that Robert had dropped his head into his hands, and with elbows resting on his knees, was fighting to maintain his vertical balance. Slowly swaying left he’d twitch slightly and start to sway to the right. A few seconds later, a twitch and he’d start his sway to the left. His grandparents were sitting stiffly to his left, eyes glued to the reverend.
After about forty-five minutes the sermon finally ended, and after stifling a yawn I arched my back and indulged in a delicious joint cracking stretch. After a solemn farewell hymn and an ending prayer we all stood up and started shuffling toward the aisle.
Just as I reached the end of our pew I heard someone behind me calling my name.
“Frankie! Frankie! ¡Oye, espérate!” (Wait!) It was Señora Sánchez.
Unable to move any faster because of the congestion in the aisle I stopped and looked over my shoulder. She was shuffling between my pew and the one in front, one hand holding on to the front pew and the other frantically waving. “¡Espérate! Quiero preguntate algo.” (Wait! I want to ask you something.)
Trapped, I turned to her. “Sí Señora.”
“Hablé con el reverendo Villa y queremos visitarlos el sábado próximo. ¿Van a estar en casa tus padres?” (I spoke to Reverend Villa and we want to visit you next Saturday. Will your parents be home?) She asked breathlessly.
“I don’t know.” I answered honestly. “Maybe my mom, but I don’t know about my dad.”
“Oh that’s OK.” (It sounded like, ‘Odas OK.’) “We wan visiting you en you familia for the praying for all you to come back to shursh.” She smiled widely; proud of herself for communicating her message to me in English. I thought maybe I should just speak to her in Spanish from now on.
“Bueno pues,” I started, “le digo a mi mamá pero no sé si van a estar en casa el sábado.” (I’ll tell my mom but I don’t know if they’ll be home on Saturday.)
“¡Ay, sí!” She said, clapping her hands together then clasping them to her heart. “Yo conocí a tus padres cuando eran muy jóvenes.” (Oh yes, I knew your parents when they were very young.)
“Oh, OK. I’ll tell them.”
By now the aisle was clear and I saw Robert and his family as they were going through the front door. Waving goodbye hastily at Señora Sánchez I hurried down the aisle.
From behind me I heard, “Hey, what’s your hurry?” It was Joni.
“Oh, ah, hi…I think we’re leaving.” As I put my hurried departure on hold.
“So, how did you like the service?” She asked sweetly.
“Oh, sure, it was good—you know, OK.” I was stammering.
“Well, good to see you again, but I still don’t like your friend.” She said this through a little smile while looking behind me where Robert would’ve been.
“Oh, sorry. My parents don’t come here so I have to ride with him. We live in the same neighborhood.”
“Where’s that?” She asked.
“El Crisol.” I quickly responded.
“That’s a rough neighborhood,” she whispered, “You like it there?”
“Well, that’s where my parents live,” I responded, “so I don’t have much of a choice.”
“Of course. Well, I’d introduce you to my brothers but they left early. I’m sure you saw them. Well, maybe next time…if you decide to come back.” She broke into a large smile and I noticed a small dark mole just above her lip on the left side of her face.
Suddenly, not really knowing what to say, all I could come up with was, “Sure, I gotta go. Bye.”
“Bye, Frankie.” The way she said that made me feel like I was a little kid.
“Call me Frank.” I called over my shoulder as I headed out through the doors and down the front steps.
I trotted over to where Robert was getting into the back seat of the car and squeezed in next to him.
He elbowed me in the ribs and loudly whispered, “Frankie the Bear! Again, with the chica roja (red chick). Be careful, ese, or her brothers will kick your ass.”
“Roberto!” His grandmother said sharply from the front seat.
All I could do was grin stupidly.
They Came Bearing Gifts
I
The following Saturday, as usual on a hot summer day, I had gotten up late, and after having a stiff flour tortilla smeared with some dried out refried beans I wandered out to the back yard to lounge in the sparse grass under a small pin oak tree. A few years ago, and when we lived in the house on House Street, Saturdays usually meant a good breakfast of atole con leche y azúcar (hot cornmeal mush with milk and sugar), in the morning, with an exciting bus trip to downtown Houston for shopping, hot chili dogs, and a movie in the afternoon. But since the beginning of my mother’s health problems brought on by the unexpected birth of my brother, her kidneys’ decision to manufacture stones that could only be removed by surgery, and my father’s alcohol filled binges there was hardly enough money for anything other than the most rudimentary in food, housing and clothing. Movies were out of the question, so my Saturday entertainment was now limited to reading, listening to radio dramas, playing by myself, and daydreaming.
Taking a couple of old almost spineless hardback books outside with me I flopped down on the dewy grass and rolled over on my back in the cool shade. Using the book to block out the mid-morning sun filtering through the leafy branches I tried to get back into Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, but soon found myself thinking back to the odd little Pentecostal church and its even odder members.
I was deep into wondering about the trance some of the members had gone into before falling to the floor and speaking in tongues when I suddenly remembered that Mrs. Sánchez was supposed to come to visit today. Worse, I had completely forgotten to mention it to either my mother or my father at all! Scrambling up to my feet I threw the book to the ground and ran into the house.
“Mamá! Mamá! Where are you? I forgot to tell you something!” I breathlessly shouted as I flew through the screen door.
“¡Aquí estoy en la cocina! ¿Qué quieres?” She responded impatiently, wringing out a ragged dishcloth and draping it over the sink.
Tearing into the kitchen I saw that she had just finished washing and drying the dishes and pans that had been left to soak overnight in the small soap filled plastic tub.
“Mrs. Sánchez is coming over today!” I spit out.
“Who?! What?!”
“Mrs. Sánchez…the one from the church!”
“What schursh?” She looked pissed. “And, why is she coming here?”
“The schursh…uh, church that I went to last Sunday with Robert!” I explained, while pasting on my face the most innocent look I could muster. “You know. The little fat lady you used to know.”
“¡Pancho!” She only called me that when she was getting irritated. “How do you know she’s coming to our casa?”
Expecting a stinging left hook to come out of nowhere I slowly raised my right forearm for a preemptive block, and answered timidly, “Well, she told me to tell you she’s coming to pray with you—or maybe pray for you, and dad too—so God can make you go back to church.”
“WHAT??!!” I was doomed.
“Mom! I’m sorry! I forgot to tell you. I don’t know why!” I whined, trying hard to swallow the rapidly growing lump in my throat.
“And she’s coming TODAY??”
“Yeah, I think that’s what she said.” Any second now I’d be on the floor wondering who I was.
“¡Dios mio!” She was exasperated and started pacing around the little kitchen, her left hand busy wiping her brow. I was temporarily out of range. “What time are they coming? Do you know that?”
“Uh, no. She didn’t say. All she said was that she was coming and asked if you and dad were going to be home.” Her head spun around, her dark eyes freezing me like a startled deer.
“What did you tell her about your dad?”
“Well, I said you’d probably be home but that I didn’t know about him.”
“Jesus Christ!” She was really pissed now. “He’s not here—he didn’t come home from work yesterday!”
“Well,” I offered amicably, “maybe that’s a good thing, no?”
“¡Pendejo!” She yelled. “What if he comes home drunk while she’s here? What’s going to happen then?”
“I don’t think she’s coming alone…” I offered up meekly.
“WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?”
“Maybe she’s bringing some other people from the church with her?” My death was imminent.
“Holy God!” Her eyes were bulging and her hands were balled up. I was keeping my eye on the left one.
“I’m sorry, mama. Is there something I can do?” I asked, terrified.
“Pancho, you’ve done enough! Now tell me what time they’re coming.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. What time is it?”
“Get out of here and put some clothes on!” She yelled, pointing the way with her left index finger.
Because it was Saturday I hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt or shoes and was just wearing a very old pair of jeans. Scurrying out of the kitchen but keeping a wary eye out for a sneak attack at the back of my head, I headed for the chester drawers to look for some clothes.
Finding a relatively hole-free white T-shirt and a pair of wrinkled khaki pants, I dressed quickly and exited the house to the safety of the front yard. Putting the tree between the house and myself I sat on the ground facing the street. Retrieving the book I had hastily thrown down earlier I again tried to concentrate on the words but found my interest waning. There were more important events about to unfold.
II
An old wood paneled Pontiac station wagon turned cautiously onto our street. As the car rolled slowly I saw several arms extending from the car window—all pointing in the direction of our house—and then the car came to a sudden squealing stop.
Tumbling out of the car the group paused momentarily to smooth out from their clothes the humidity-induced wrinkles, straighten up their hats, and to carefully tuck their well-worn black leather covered Bibles under their arms. The three men in the group were all dressed in ill-fitting wool pin-striped double breasted suits, and the two pudgy women, one of them Mrs. Sánchez, were in full Sunday morning “going to church” dresses, complete with tattered little netted hats perched atop their graying electric-ironed curls. This, in a neighborhood where shoes and shirts were optional.
Sizing each other up and whispering some encouragement to one another, they turned as if one, and marched through our little front yard. Walking by me the men nodded their heads and greeted me with a “God bless you child”. Mrs. Sánchez waved, winked, and smiled. The lead, a short paunchy man with a badly trimmed mustache whom I’d seen sitting on the stage, strode up to our rickety screen door, and with his open palm gently rapped the frame a few times.
“¿Señora De León, Señora De León? Somos de la Iglesia de Jerusalén y deseamos visitar por unos cuantos minutos para platicarle de nuestro Señor Jesucristo.” (Mrs. De León, we’re from the church and want to visit for a few minutes to speak to you of our Lord Jesus Christ.)
Still sitting on the ground with my back to the tree, I watched as my mother came to the door with her best smile frozen on her face. After a few words she opened the screen door and let them in. As the last lady passed through, my mother shot me a “you are in deep trouble” look, and pointed at me with her left index finger to ensure that I understood completely.
After a few minutes I got up and walked over to the porch. Sitting on the top step I could hear most of what was going on in the front room.
They told my mother that the pastor of Iglesia Jerusalén, Reverend Villa, had assigned them to reach out to her and her husband to see if they would like to resume visiting the church they had attended many years ago. There was no pressure to do so, they assured her, but since “little Frankie” had attended a couple of services with another family, it would please them to see the full De León family attend on their own. It didn’t matter, they said, which service we chose to attend; as there was a service or a prayer meeting just about every night, and we would be welcome anytime.
My mother wasn’t saying much, mostly replying that she would have to discuss this matter with her husband. Eventually they asked where her husband was. “Oh,” she said, “he’s working.” To this they asked if he worked regularly on Saturdays, and just exactly what it was that he did. My mother, never one to be able to tell a very good lie, began to hesitate and repeat herself nervously. It began to sound like an interrogation, and when I got the courage to turn around and try to look through the screen I spotted my mother sitting on our little couch looking like a trapped rabbit.
The two women in the group had taken a seat on either side of her and the three men were sitting on our kitchen chairs in a rough semi-circle facing the three women. They all had their bibles on their laps, each open to different places, and were reading different passages prior to asking their questions or making comments.
After about thirty minutes I heard one of the men say, “Bueno hermanos, vamos a orar.” (OK, brothers, let us pray.) They all stood, momentarily leaving my mom seated, and closed their bibles. Mrs. Sánchez offered my mother her hand and having taken it was gently made to stand with the group. Raising their hands and bowing their heads the pudgy guy led off the prayer.
He began by thanking God for allowing them to reacquaint themselves with one of His long lost sheep and reassured the Lord that very soon the De León family would return to the holy fold. The rest of the group was also praying out loud but the lead speaker mostly drowned their words out. My mother had her head bowed but her eyes were open and she appeared to be intently studying her sandals and counting her toes. Just then I saw a tear run down her face and hover on her chin.
The prayer went on forever and got louder and louder—and I feared that our neighbors might soon hear the clamor and think that there was something seriously amiss at our house. And based on my previous experience at their church, I fully expected them to fly off into a holy hysteria any minute and start dancing around speaking in strange languages. That would surely bring out a few weapons in my neighborhood.
As good fortune would have it the little group remained in tight control and kept their histrionics in check, and their prayers in Spanish. Slowly the volume decreased and thankfully soon they all began to say “amen” over and over. That was a really good sign and indicated that it was all but over.
The women, having produced handkerchiefs from some hidden pocket, were swabbing their eyes and hugging my mother over and over. The men having put their bibles on the chairs were shaking each other’s hands and hugging each other. That confused me.
By the time they all finally piled out onto the porch I had retreated back to the tree, and from there watched the group swirl around my mother like sharks around a bait ball; each assuring her that the Lord had plans for her, her husband, and even me. Now in the late afternoon sun I noticed that my mother’s cheeks were streaked and her eyes appeared wet and swollen. She was also now in possession of a delicate white hanky, which I knew for sure, she didn’t own. She didn’t seem to be cross, or even slightly put out, but in fact looked somehow acquiescent and submissive. It was a look that I had never seen on my mother’s face, but one that I would ultimately get used to seeing on her regularly for many years to come.
As the group drove away, arms waving through the car’s open windows, I felt my mother’s hand softly touch my neck. Turning and fully expecting her to be angry I instead saw her lovingly smile at me. “Ven mijito,” she whispered. “Let’s see what we can find for you to eat.” Sliding her arm over my shoulder she guided me back up the steps and back into the house.
“Mom,” I asked. “Are you going to tell dad that those people came?”
“Sí, ¿como no?” She said sweetly. “He has to know because we need to accept God in our lives.
“Why?” I asked curiously.
Because He’s the only one who can stop your dad from drinking, and He’s the only one who can make me well. And for Him to be able to do those things we must all go to church to ask forgiveness for all of our sins. So, yes, he has to know.”
What sins? I thought. I’ve never killed anyone or stolen any money either. “But mom, I don’t think dad is just going to agree to go just because you ask him to.” I said incredulously.
“Sí, mijito, he will. Not because I ask him to, but because God will show him the way. I never knew that before now, but now I know and I feel it in my heart.”
She turned and strode into the kitchen. “Ven,” she said, “let’s eat and then you can go outside until it’s time for you to go to bed. I have to wait for your father to come home.”
“He may not be home until tomorrow morning, mom!” I pleaded.
“I know mijito, but I’ll be waiting for him anyway.”
After we had eaten some flour tortillas with refried beans, and had split a hot dog between us, I went out the back door to wait for it to get dark. Sitting on the back steps I watched the dusky evening fade and the saw the fireflies begin their flickering flights. Later, after hearing the frogs and crickets come to life, I heard my mother puttering around the kitchen happily humming some out of tune melody.
Later, darkness enveloped the neighborhood and I found it harder to keep my eyes open. Scratching a couple of mosquito bites I got up opened the screen door and walked into the dark kitchen. My rollaway bed had been taken out of its hiding place in a small closet in the front room and set up in its usual place between the kitchen table and the window. As I peered into the front room on my way to the bathroom I saw my mother’s silhouette dimly illuminated by the waning moonlight. She sat motionless on our little couch by the front window looking out into the darkness. Many hours later a merciful deeply numbing exhaustion would finally overtake her and she would sleep fitfully until the bright dawning sun cruelly welcomed her to yet another dismally lonely and empty morning.