The Beginning Of The End
Holy Merry-Go-Round
When 1958 rolled around the DeLeón family had become faithful and ever present members of the Nueva Jerusalén Pentecostal church. We attended just about every service that was offered, in addition to traveling a couple to three times a month to churches that were members of our Council (Latin American Council of Christian Churches) in south and east Texas. Being groomed to someday become a licensed reverend, Villa put my father on a fast track, taking on the role of his personal envoy and being sent to represent him at church services in such exotic locales as Sugar Land, Rosenberg, Alvin, Alice, Edna, Galveston, and El Campo.
With a couple of exceptions, most of these churches were very small, having no more than twenty or thirty regular members, and they were located in mostly rural areas where the male and juvenile membership labored in the cotton fields, factories and cattle ranches. The wives, moms, and daughters took in washing, ironing, or worked as domestic help in homes belonging to well to do ranchers and local businessmen.
The pastors, for the most part either very old or very young—and in either case not very well educated—could not possibly support themselves or their families on the tithes of their membership, so they supplemented their pastoral salaries by holding down menial minimum wage Monday through Friday jobs, or selling fruits and vegetables grown in small plots on their church property. But in spite of their hand to mouth existence they, and their congregations, were all extremely gracious and unaffectedly sincere. There would always be a special dinner, usually prepared at several of the members’ homes (due to the lack of a church kitchen) and served to us and the pastor prior to the beginning of the service; and the entire proceeds of the night’s offering was always given to my father before we left.
For a while I was confused as to why the pastors and congregations treated us so well, but finally decided that it probably had to do with the pastors’ fear that we were there to keep book on their church operation and would be reporting everything back to HQ. I later discovered that the reason these sorties were arranged by Villa were to provide my father with some face time with the outlanders. The more familiar he was with these country churches the easier it would be for him to transition from lowly church official to future reverend status. Plus, once ordained he would probably be assigned to one of these churches in order to begin his ministry, and thus his familiarity with the folks would ease his acceptance by the congregation.
After arriving at the church and prior to the beginning of the service my father would be introduced as an honored guest for that evening and offered seating on the stage or altar in a place usually reserved for the pastor. My mother and brother would be ushered to one of the front pews and I would be escorted up to where the pianist (if they had one) or other musicians were seated so I could join in with my guitar. This I didn’t mind so much because sitting on the stage looking out to the congregation gave me a great vantage point to check out the local female talent. One very endearing and, in the end, heart rending romantic liaison resulted from these trips—but more on that later.
These constant and never-ending excursions to the outlying churches, in addition to our nightly attendance at our own church, took up the majority of any free time I may have had after school and on weekends. Consequently, and in addition to putting me under heavy pressure to complete homework assignments and class projects, I was forbidden from participating in any type of social activity that normal teens my age were enjoying. Dating, attending school activities such as sporting events, dances (prohibited by our religion), hanging out with friends, or just laying around listening to rock and roll on the radio (also prohibited), were completely out of the question. The mere mention of my wanting to attend some other-than-church activity would guarantee a huge butt chewing by both of my parents—and would always end with a sermon promising me that my sinful and worldly desires would result in my spending eternity in the pits of Hell in the company of Satan and his demons
Struggling to maintain my grades I was forced to complete my school work late at night in the dimly lit kitchen usually right after returning from church services; fighting sleep and fatigue while my parents and my brother were sound asleep in their beds. My memory of school days at Jefferson Davis High School are mostly a blur as I remember constantly falling asleep on the bus to and from school, and fighting to stay awake during class. It was not uncommon for me to ask my teachers for bathroom breaks then spending five or ten minutes with elbows on my knees, my hands supporting my head while at the same time trying not to slip off the pot while I caught a few winks.
At our church I was now considered a regular member of the band. Keeping my promise to Marcelo, I swallowed my pride during a couple of Sunday night services and performed by singing a hymn solo during the ‘special hymns’ section of the service while accompanying myself on the guitar. To my surprise Joni began to warm up to me again, although in a strictly platonic manner, and even her brothers, who by now had decided that I didn’t pose a threat to their sister, began to seek me out before and after church to chat and joke around.
At the end of each service, and long after the congregation went home, my father and Reverend Villa would retire to one of the side offices while we just sat around in the dining room waiting. To pass the time during these long meetings, and since there was no one around, I would sneak back into the empty church and began to experiment with the piano. Transposing my knowledge of guitar chords to the piano keyboard I quickly discovered that I was able to put chords together with my right hand (majors, minors, 7ths and 9ths) while sounding out the bass equivalents with my left. It certainly wasn’t actual piano playing—that is, melody carried by the right hand and chord support with the left, but then again my audience was not that music savvy either. Further, the majority of our hymns, and all of the coritos, were in major keys and structured in easy three chord progressions. In the end my voice carried the melody and both of my hands banged out the supporting chords.
Continuing his quest for a coveted reverend-ship my father decided to give up his post as president of the Sociedad De Hermanos and run in a special election for church treasurer. The previous treasurer had resigned his position and suddenly moved to McAllen, Texas, to be with his family after being diagnosed with terminal cancer. My dad was a shoo-in and was elected unanimously with only a voice vote. Things were really looking up and it looked like all the stars were aligned for his eventual promotion to reverend.
Then the bottom fell out.
That’s All Folks
During an especially well attended Sunday night service there seemed to be an intensely pervading sense of anticipation among the church leadership. Earlier that day, during the morning’s Sunday school class, the young brother teaching us about Solomon and the horrendous decision that God had forced him to make, seemed oddly distant and distracted—repeatedly losing his train of thought and often giving rambling and disjointed answers to questions posed by his students.
The “after Sunday school lunch”, which had become a regular event since moving into the new church, was particularly extravagant that day. The usual fare of bean tacos, spicy cheese enchiladas and crispy tostadas had instead been replaced by heaping platters of flour coated deep fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and several different choices of boiled green vegetables. Hot steaming stacks of freshly made soft flour tortillas were covered in white and blue-checkered cloth towels and were evenly spaced along the center of the picnic-style tables. For dessert, someone had even donated several fruit pies along with a couple of large bags of Mexican pastry.
Sitting with my family at one of the long wooden tables I noticed that my dad had barely touched his plate and seemed quietly pensive during the meal; his fingers absently caressing his shirt’s breast pocket unsuccessfully searching for that non-existent pack of unfiltered Camels. Finally, looking quickly at his watch he gulped down his cup of black coffee and abruptly stood up. Easing in behind my mother he bent down and whispered to her that he would be in a meeting with Reverend Villa and we should wait for him on the church steps. Before she could manage an answer he stepped away and hurriedly walked out of the dining room and back into the main auditorium. Never letting a food chance slip away, my brother carefully watched as my dad left, and then hastily reached across the table. He grabbed my father’s still full plate with his left hand and placed it in front of him, while at the same time he pushed his own bone filled plate to where my dad’s had been. I shot him a glance indicating my disgust, which he returned with a leering grease ringed smile.
The meeting lasted so long that when my father finally emerged he announced that we only had enough time to drive directly home, change clothes, and return to the church in time for the start of the evening service. On the trip back to the church Ricky kept asking my mother if we were going to have enough time for him to have dinner before the evening service started. He piped down when my mother assured him that once we got back to the church she’d ask the cooking sisters to see if they could scrape up a leftover tortilla or two.
The service that evening, normally directed by one of the senior church members of our congregation, was instead officiated by a loyal member of Villa’s inner circle, Reverend Juan Rocha, a pastor from one of our sister churches in Galveston, Texas. Taking the pulpit as the pre-service music was finishing up he asked the congregation to stand and join him in prayer dedicating this service to the Lord. Just a few minutes into the prayer, and before anyone could really get too possessed by the Holy Spirit, he motioned to Joni to begin the next hymn. She turned to us, mouthing the title of a particularly solemn hymn, and softly sounded out the key in which it was to be played.
The first few chords of the hymn, accompanied by Joni’s soft alto voice, had the desired effect on the crowd and their prayers and supplications slowly began to subside. Reverend Rocha began verbalizing ‘amen y amen’, one right after the other, further quieting the people down, and as the last ‘gracias a Dios’ was sounded he motioned everyone to take their seats. The odd beginning to the service, along with the abbreviated prayers, made the evening service seem more businesslike and less spiritual.
The reverend continued to direct the service in a strangely clipped and truncated manner until it was time for the offering to be collected. After a short prayer, dedicating the offering to God, he called on a couple of young female members of the Jóvenes De Cristo [Youths for Christ] to come to the front and begin passing the baskets around. While this was going on Joni led us in a rousing “norteño” style hymn. This seemed to awaken and draw the congregation back into their normal spiritual rhythm, and for the first time that evening the tambourines came out in full force. It was during this hymn that I saw Reverend Villa slip quietly onto the altar area through one of the side doors and almost tip-toe across the stage; all the while singing along to the rousing hymn. He paused, smiled at Reverend Rocha and took his place in front of an empty chair next to my father. They shook hands and Reverend Villa patted him gently on the shoulder.
As the baskets, now filled with gleaming coins and crumpled bills, made their last pass through the congregation, Reverend Rocha signaled the hymn’s end and waved everyone back down into their seats. Staring stoically into the crowd he patiently waited for the shuffling, coughing, and throat clearing to finally subside.
Holding tightly to each far upper corner of the pulpit he looked deeply into the congregation and began to speak softly. He started out by reminding everyone that the church we were now attending existed not only because of a lot of prayer and a lot of sacrifice, but also because of the guidance and vision that Reverend Villa had maintained during his tenure as pastor of the church. No one, including himself, had ever dreamed that they would ever be worshiping in such a grand place, and they had God first, then the good reverend to thank for this honor.
A loud chorus of holy affirmations came flooding up from the crowded auditorium as Reverend Rocha stepped away from the pulpit. Villa slowly stood up from his chair, and holding his ever-present white leather bible close to his chest, turned to the officials sitting to his left and smiled broadly. They all suddenly stood up and began to applaud.
Like a wave that began as a slow ripple, rolling rhythmically from the first row and growing until it reached the very last one, the entire congregation stood and joined in the applause. Unexpectedly feeling out of place sitting down, I saw Brother Cantú, then the trumpet boys, followed by the drummer and finally Joni, stand. Putting my guitar down I also stood up. The adulation went on for two or three long minutes until Villa, arms raised as in surrender, slowly began to motion them all to sit back down.
Ten or fifteen seconds after the last of the congregation sat down Villa began to speak. A few words in, and large tears started rolling down his cheeks as the news that we all somehow knew was coming was revealed. He tearfully explained that he would soon be leaving our church to become the special assistant to the president of the Latin American Council of Christian Churches in Kingsville, Texas. I later found out that the president, a fellow named Francisco Guillen, already in his mid-eighties, was expected to retire (or die) soon, and that Villa, having been groomed for this position for years, would be in place as special assistant to eventually inherit the mantle of leadership. This was a move that had not been decided on in haste.
As Villa’s words hit the audience most of the women in the audience gasped, some fell on their knees violently shaking their heads back and forth, and others just stared in frozen shock. Men gaped like zombies, and children, probably sensing the strange and uncomfortable atmosphere, scurried up onto shaking laps. Handkerchiefs flew out of pockets and purses, and a restrained and painful wailing began to emanate from the hall.
My father, shoulders drooping, head hanging down and supported by his right hand’s thumb and forefinger had joined his chair-mates on the stage and was crying like a baby. I began to feel a bit uncomfortable watching him like that so I averted my gaze and settled in on Joni.
She, on the other hand, was the picture of calmness. Sitting comfortably on the piano bench, arms and legs crossed she looked calm—no, bored; right leg over left—swinging up and down. Not sure of what I should be feeling or doing, I sat back down and lifted my guitar back onto my lap, running through some chords in my mind.
Reverend Rocha by now had somewhat composed himself and was blowing his nose mightily into his yellowed hankie. After examining his deposit he folded the handkerchief and stuffed it into his front coat pocket. Shooting a glance toward us he did a little figure eight with his index finger. Joni immediately uncrossed her legs, turned to us and softly said “G”. Without further hesitation she launched into a cheery and bouncy little corito that in the past had never failed to lighten the congregation’s mood and raise their spirits. Soon, everyone was clapping in time, the tambourines were trilling and the crowd was back in their Holy Roller mood. Even my father, nose red and eyes a bit swollen, was clapping in time to the music, singing away, and looking to the heavens.
With everyone back in Pentecostal mode Villa took the pulpit for the Sunday evening sermon. He didn’t disappoint. In high gear, midway through his oration he loosened his tie and went for the home run. It was righteous chaos and the Holy Spirit descended upon the crowd with a vengeance. Fiery foreign tongues were shrieking from the three-deep throng at the altar and the reverends and reverends-in-waiting were circulating amongst the devoted encouraging all to greater heights. We were cycling through every lively corito we knew to the point that the trumpet boys finally blew themselves completely out. Blowing the spit out of their trumpets they finally just collapsed on their chairs—and mopping the sweat off their faces sat exhausted, legs akimbo looking up at the ceiling.
The service went well past midnight and I knew that I’d be suffering for it all next day at school. In the car, on the way home I asked my dad if he knew when Villa was leaving.
“Oh, maybe in a month or so.” He said.
I wondered out loud who was going to replace him.
“Some guy…Puerto Rican, I think…from New York.” He answered, a little detached. “Rodriguez—Sergio Rodriguez. He’s been pastoring a church there from our council, and they say he lives somewhere they call The Bronx.”
How odd. I thought. I’ve never met anyone from New York, and never even imagined we had a sister church there. Further, what’s a Bronx, and what in the world is a Puerto Rican doing living there anyway?
Yeah, I was that clueless.
Just A Little Case of Embezzlement
The Reverend Villa’s eminent departure turned out not to be so eminent after all. As one month rolled into another no further mention was made of his reassignment to South Texas and the church-going settled into an unsettled routine. My dad, anticipating a surprise announcement naming him as a reverend any day now, began to cut his hours down at Younger Brothers; taking half days off here and there, and every once in a while entire days, or sets of days, off. Those he used to hob-nob with, and accompany Villa, and a couple of other reverends, on day trips to various outlying churches.
On more than one occasion he would be gone for a couple or three days, and upon his return would explain to my mom that having finished their business in one town, Villa had decided to press on to Dallas, or McAllen, or San Antonio—or wherever. Anyway, he told her impatiently, he was doing God’s work, and it was not proper to question that.
Problem was, God’s work didn’t pay as well as Younger Brothers work, and so we gradually started to regress back into the lean years of old. My dad’s paychecks, pitifully small due to his many absences, began to fall ruefully short of our household expenses and we began to fall behind in almost all financial categories. The bitter arguments about money, or the lack thereof, started up again after having been almost non-existent since my parent’s conversion to Pentecostalism.
During one particularly nasty quarrel my mother confronted my dad after learning that he’d not only given Reverend Villa an expensive shotgun for his birthday, he’d also hosted a lavish birthday dinner at an upscale Mexican restaurant for his family and a large group of Villa’s entourage. The event had occurred while my mom, brother and I were attending a bible study class one Saturday afternoon. Her sources had informed her that the bill for the meal alone had exceeded well over a hundred dollars; that being even before my father had generously tipped the entire restaurant staff.
Her voice breaking and her eyes brimming with angry tears she demanded over and over for him to reveal the source of the money that he’d so recklessly spent on someone other than his own family. At first he insisted that all of this was none of her business and that she had no right to demand anything from him. He kept insisting that he was performing God’s will and being guided by the Holy Spirit; and having been shown the righteous path he must take, no one on this earth had the authority to question his actions.
Several times during the vicious row he tried to disengage by turning and walking away from her, but like a mad bulldog locked in on her quarry she followed him closely, fists clenched and jaw jutted, matching every step of his retreat with one of hers in her advance.
She cornered him in the kitchen yelling at him at the top of her lungs, berating him, and demanding to know how he could afford to give gifts to his friends; and worse, feed them at swanky restaurants, while blatantly ignoring the welfare of his own family. Finally giving in to her, he turned to face her and made a startling confession.
He said he was using his own paychecks, not to entertain anyone, but to try to stay up with the household bills as best he could. The money he was spending for the gifts and such was coming from the church treasury that he’d been elected to oversee. When he found himself long on personal church related entertainment expenses and short on money he found it easy to turn to the treasury and reach into its deep pockets. So, for some time now he’d been skimming some of the church’s funds to use for these expenses, and since he didn’t have anyone overseeing him directly he wasn’t too worried about getting caught. But not to worry, he assured her, it was not his intention to use the funds and not ever replace them. Just as soon as we were back on our feet, and prior to the quarterly conference when the books were audited by the council leadership, he would make good and fully replace the squandered funds.
“Bob!!” My mother said, fear deeply woven into her trembling voice. “What are you thinking? And just how much have you taken?”
My father looked up over my mother’s head and saw me standing just outside the kitchen entrance. “Pancho! Get back into your bedroom or go outside! And take your brother with you!” He suddenly looked and sounded very angry.
“OK.” I responded quickly walking backward and bumping into Ricky and knocking him on his butt.
“What’s going on?” Ricky asked as he got to his feet.
“Nothing! Let’s go outside and shoot some baskets.” I pulled him by the arm and headed out the back door.
Even out in the back yard I could still hear their voices, rising and falling—sometimes talking over each other—but always very angry. As I bounced my ball and took free throw shots on my self-built backboard constructed with some old lumber that I’d found in the garage, I tried to make sense of the words I’d heard my dad say.
Taking money from the church funds? Well, I knew that since he’d been elected treasurer the proceeds of every offering, after having been counted in the back room of the church, had been put into a locking metal box that was subsequently put into and locked in the trunk of our car. A couple of times, when he had to stay behind to talk to Villa about something or other, he’d asked me to carry the box out and lock it in the trunk. It was heavy and the thin steel handle hurt my fingers as I lifted it up and put it into the wheel well that had not held a spare tire for years.
“…told you I’ll put the money back….when…” The words floating out through the kitchen window as my old basketball popped the strings at the bottom of the yellowing net.
“What if…with the new pastor…he’ll know…” all in a quivering voice.
Not wanting to hear more I started running a series of layups followed by some fade-away jump shots; but my brain kept asking me questions.
After shagging of few of my errant shots Ricky had retreated under the house and had probably fallen asleep on the cool bare earth. Deep in the pit of my stomach I felt an uncomfortable gnawing sensation, and the concentration I was trying to maintain on my jump shot execution began to waver. The voices that were coming from the house had stopped.
Running to retrieve the ball after it had clanged off the rim and bounced sideways and away from me, a strange new and very unsettling thought seeped into my brain: I don’t want to live here anymore!
Arriving home from school one Friday afternoon I was surprised to see a Younger Brothers pickup truck in the driveway. Worse, upon entering the house I was shocked to see our meager belongings haphazardly packed into cardboard boxes. I ran into the kitchen where my mother was standing in front of the sink looking out the window. Her back to me it seemed as if she’d not heard me, in spite of the noise I had made throwing my books on the floor and calling her as I ran to find her.
“Mom! Why are there boxes in everywhere with our stuff in them?”
She continued to stand there, stock-still.
“Mom?” I called to her, and then I noticed a very small tremor pass between her shoulders.
“Mom? What’s happening?”
She turned around slowly, and I saw the tears streaming down her face. At that moment I thought that I’d never ever seen her so sad. “We’re moving, mijo. Pack your things in the boxes I left in your bedroom. Hurry, so we can load them up for the next trip to the house.”
“Where are we going, Mom? Am I going to have to change schools?” No answer.
Her eyes, brimming with tears slowly looked downward, and the tears spilled out onto her cheeks—then off, and made little splashes on the linoleum floor. Her chest shuddered and she made a small mewing sound. “Oh…mijito. I don’t know. No se. Dios mio.”
“Mom…I don’t understand. Why are we moving? Where are we going? Mom?” I felt a lump growing in my throat.
“Mijito,” she said sadly. “I don’t know, I just don’t know. Please go put your clothes and things in the boxes and help Ricky too.”
By eleven that night we had finally made the last of countless trips, carrying and stacking boxes at the rental house that my dad had apparently contracted without my mother’s knowledge. It was a small “shotgun” three room house, in a run-down neighborhood in southeast Houston. About a block and a half east what is now called the La Porte Freeway, it was in a completely different school district that would require my transferring out of Jeff Davis High School.
My brother and I would again be sleeping in the kitchen on our old rollaway beds and keeping our clothes in cardboard boxes. Because the house was so small my mother’s wringer tub washing machine had to also be stored in one corner of the tiny kitchen; and before we could drag and set up our beds at night the washer had to be rolled out into the middle of the room blocking any possible access to the bathroom. That made for a few stubbed toes in the middle of the night when our bladders needed relief.
Since I already had my driver’s license I drove our 1955 Ford Fairlane that last moving night with my brother while my dad, accompanied by my mother, drove the Younger Brothers pickup. As I kept up with the green and white truck, bed filled with our final load, Ricky asked, “Frankie, why are we moving? I liked that house a lot.”
“I don’t know Ricky. Mom wasn’t able to tell me and dad wasn’t talking.”
“Well,” he continued, “am I going to go to the same school?
“I don’t think so. I know we’re in a new district now, but I don’t know what schools are here.”
“Oh man, I liked my school too.” He said, a little sadly. Yawning, he drew his legs up onto the seat and laid his head on my lap. “Yeah, I did, Frankie. I liked my teacher too. I really did.” He sighed deeply and in less than a minute he was sleeping soundly, leaving me to ponder his questions, and mine. On the radio, Conway Twitty was telling me that “It’s Only Make Believe.”
Puppy Love
The arguments between my parents over my father’s use of church money intensified over the next few weeks, and it seemed the only time they weren’t at each other’s throats was when we were attending one of the services in our church, or visiting some other outlying church. The car trips to and from the services were conducted in total silence, with my mother usually just looking out the window, face stern with her bottom lip permanently pooched out. My brother and I could sense the tension between them so we kept quiet, mostly communicating with each other in the back seat with hand signals and silently mouthed words.
My father had stopped talking to not only my mother, but to my brother and me as well. If I dared ask him a question around the house, about anything, he would just mumble, “Go ask your mother.”
Once arriving at a church, and as soon as they exited the car, they would both shift into normal Holy Roller mode and revert back to their “born again” personalities—that is, as long as they didn’t have to talk to each other. Leaving the car they would drift off in different directions; he, seeking his reverend-bound male compatriots, and she, her gabby sisters in Christ. That would leave me, struggling to retrieve and lug my guitar and amplifier from the trunk of the car into the church, and Ricky mostly to his own devices. More often than not he would just sit in the car by himself until my mother called him to join her because the service was about to start.
One Sunday evening after a long drive to one of our churches in Alvin, Texas, where my dad, now in serious training for his reverend’s license, was scheduled to deliver a sermon. The little church was pastored by a very young man with a wife and a couple of kids. Word was that he’d caught the Reverend Guillen’s attention while he was visiting Mexico, and the old man had recruited him on the spot to lead the little church. I assumed he was illegal, or maybe on a worker’s visa, because he was installed as pastor just a few weeks after arriving in Alvin. Because he had no car for transportation he and his family had to depend on the generosity of his congregation for the first few months of his assignment; and worse, neither he, nor his wife and kids, spoke a word of English.
On that day I had been sitting up on the stage tuning my guitar when I glanced up to see a small group of people coming through the front door. They immediately attracted my attention because of the way they were dressed, and in the way they carried themselves as they entered through the front door.
For the most part, the membership of these outlying churches, usually located in small rural towns surrounding the Houston metro area, could all be lumped into one demographic: Hispanic, distressingly poor, uneducated, and upper middle-aged and older. For the most part his or her general demeanor could be described as subservient, with an inborn willingness to blindly follow anyone who displayed any modicum of leadership. They had probably entered the country illegally at one time or another and seemed satisfied to quietly melt into the local population, finding work in accustomed settings such as farming, ranching, or domestic labor.
The family entering through the front door bore no resemblance to any of the aforementioned characteristics. Three females, two of them teens, and an adult who I assumed was their mother were led by a tall dark-skinned adult male. He was dressed in a stylish tan western suit set off by glossy black boots, and was carrying an expensive looking beige Stetson hat in his left hand. His wife, looking about twenty years younger, and much lighter skinned, was resplendent in a classy black dress, a black silk shawl draped casually over her carefully coiffed jet black hair and crossed fashionably at her waist. Wearing black high heel patent leather shoes, that were probably better suited to a classy night club rather than a plain wood framed church, she seemed to float—left arm hooked to her husband’s right—as they slowly made their way into the small auditorium greeting the earlier arrivals.
But what had really caught my attention was one of the two girls who was following closely behind the adults. Walking just to the right, and about half a step behind them, a stunningly beautiful young girl was leading her much younger sister by the hand. Her hair was somewhere between a deep red and chestnut, and had been pulled back into a long ponytail. A precisely cut set of bangs rested artfully on her forehead that set off her perfect almond-shaped dark eyes and finely chiseled cheekbones.
“¡Pancho!” Came from behind me and startled me back to reality.
I turned my head to see my dad walking up to me from where he’d been sitting on the stage.
“Oh,” was all I could think of to say. “Uh, just tuning up my guitar.”
“Mira, come with me. I want to introduce you to los hermanos Ramírez.” He said, as he put his hand on my back urging me off my chair.
“Who?”
“Put your guitar down. I met Brother Ramírez some time back at another church and I think you’ll like them. Come on, let’s go say hello.” He sounded insistent.
Why I needed to know them was beyond my comprehension, and why my dad had to do with these people was a mystery, but if meeting them meant getting closer to that girl who was I to argue. I set my Gibson down and quickly followed my dad down the two steps at the side of the stage onto the floor.
“¡Hermano y hermana Ramírez! Dios los bendiga. ¿Como han estado?” […God bless you. How’ve you been?]
Rigorously shaking first the man’s hand, then his wife’s, he turned and said, “Este es mi hijo Frankie.” [This is my son, Frankie].
I would’ve preferred “Frank”, but I was willing to let it pass.
“Hi.” I managed, while shaking their hands and trying to keep my eyes off their older daughter.
“Mucho gusto,” the man said in richly accented English. “So you’re the young man that plays the guitar and sings hymns at your father’s church in Houston?”
“Oh, sometimes. I’m still trying to learn to play the guitar a little better.” I responded, feeling a little bit self-conscious. I kept wondering when my dad would’ve had the opportunity to spend enough time with these folks to have brought my name up—as they seemed to know a lot about me.
“And a beautiful guitar it is.” He said, pointing to my gleaming Gibson resting on its side by my empty chair by the piano. “Frankie, let me introduce my wife Yolanda, and my daughters—Estela y Rebecca.”
I had already shaken his wife’s hand, but I did it again anyway, struggling to keep my eyes on her instead of her daughter. Estela, I thought. What a beautiful name.
Releasing Mrs. Ramírez’s hand I looked to her left and my eyes locked onto Estela’s.
“Hi Frankie, it’s so nice to meet you.” Her right arm reached out, dainty hand palm down, exquisitely delicate fingers slightly curled and trembling ever so slightly. Time all but stopped and as I willed my hand to reach for hers I recall—first anticipating, then wondering—what the touch of her hand on mine would feel like. Our fingers touched, and at that precise moment everyone and everything around us disappeared. I felt as if I was floating and remember having no sensation of what was up or what was down. My entire being was now focused on Estela and for that brief moment nothing else in my life mattered. I was smitten for the very first time in my life.
“Uh, yes me too.” Was my pathetic response, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances. Her hand in mine felt magical and my heart was racing. Suddenly I worried that maybe my hand was sweaty, so I slowly disengaged but continued to stare into her dark brown eyes.
“Are you going to sing a hymn for us during the special hymn section of the service?” She sweetly asked.
My God, I thought, her voice is wonderful!
“Um…No…I don’t think so.” Stammering a little, and starting to re-enter reality I realized that her sister, mother, father, and my dad were all staring strangely at me. I stepped back half a step and unconsciously put my right hand into my pocket. “Well, maybe—if there’s time.”
A shockingly stiff slap on my right shoulder and my dad answered, “Sure he will!” And that settled it.
As my listening comprehension returned I realized the adults were now chatting with one another—leaving me, Estela, and her sister slightly isolated and staring at one another.
Racking my newly emptied brain for something to say to keep Estela engaged and looking at me, the moment was shattered when Rebecca abruptly asked, “Are you saved?”
“What? Me?” I responded, a bit shocked.
“Becca!” Estela said with more than a little annoyance in her voice. “You just can’t go around asking people that you don’t know things like that!”
“Why not?” She persisted, crossing her arms over her chest. “Daddy says we shouldn’t get familiar with people who aren’t saved; they’ll lead you to the devil.” Hmm, she had no idea.
“Well Becca,” I said, with a little grin, “I promise I won’t lead you to the devil, OK?”
Estela let out a little chuckle, and my heart soared as I realized just how beautiful her smile was. She wore no makeup and didn’t need to. Her skin was smooth, just a shade up from what could be described as an olive complexion, and not a hint of acne. Her upper lip was slightly shaded with a delicate growth of fine facial hair, framing her delicate mouth around perfect white teeth. She had large expressive brown eyes, and when she smiled she crinkled her nose and tilted her head ever so slightly giving her a pixie-like look. She seemed to favor wearing her long brown hair in a ponytail or up in a bun; and much like her mother, commanded the attention of any room she entered. Truly, I had never seen such a dazzling female in all my short life—and that included Joni.
Prior to this time in my life I had not had any real (or unreal) romantic contact with females. In school, I found that I got along better with girls than I ever did with boys, but all those relationships were always strictly platonic. For example, during my high school years I found myself always having lunch with about four or five of girls, rather than spending the time with guys. The jocks and the nerds would always sit at their own tables or gathering in back-slapping and loud groups; and having nothing in common with either I soon found myself gravitating towards girls who were also neither cheerleaders, bimbos, nor future class presidents.
Our little lunch group found that we were not interested in the latest gossip: who was dating whom, or whose heart the quarterback of our school’s football team was currently breaking; and during our thirty minute lunch break we would usually meet at a predetermined spot on the front campus lawn and spend the time chatting about anything other than school. Because of my fear that even this affable group of friends would not understand the craziness that the Pentecostals considered as normal behavior, I shied away from discussing the subject. They seemed to be satisfied when I explained that my parents were members of a very religious order and that I was expected to obey every tenet of that religion.
If I had ever found any girl in school that I may have wanted to pursue I could never have done so because of the restrictions that the church and its lifestyle had placed on me. How could I have ever maintained any kind of romantic relationship with a girl outside of our church when I was prohibited from any kind of dating, dancing, or un-chaperoned involvement with the opposite sex?
In church Joni had been a pleasant distraction for me, but from the beginning I think I understood that because of the position her father held in our church, and her two hovering brothers, she would forever be completely out of my league and utterly unattainable. I would have to satisfy myself with just enjoying the view.
Estela, on the other hand presented me with a completely different set of alternatives. Belonging to the Pentecostal religion she was an accepted member of the overall congregation, and her parents, although devout and tithe-paying members of an outlying church, were not installed in leadership positions and thereby politically non-toxic. It offered me the best of all worlds. Now all I had to do was to try to win her heart.
After the service, and while I was putting up my guitar, my dad walked over and told me that the pastor had invited us to stay awhile and join him and his wife for some coffee in their pastoral house. I was a bit annoyed because this development put a huge crimp in the plan that I had been formulating all night during the service that I thought may help me get to know Estela a bit better.
My plan included hurrying up packing my guitar and amplifier, and then quickly melting into the departing crowd. Once outside I could possibly catch up with her somewhere in the church’s parking area before she left with her family. If I could somehow separate her from her sister and mother on the way to their car, I could maybe get some valuable information from her: like her phone number. Now with the invite there was no use in my hurrying since I’d be expected to put my instrument in the car right away and hurry to join my mom, dad, and brother at the pastoral house.
As I walked to our car I tried to see if I could spot the Ramírez family; but since I had no idea what kind of vehicle they drove, the odds of my finding them were pretty scarce. Since there was no real parking lot—everyone just pulled up to the front of the church and parked on the front lawn—the headlights from the ten or twelve cars that were all trying to back up and pull out onto the main road at the same time blinded me just enough to where all I could really make out was our own car.
Slamming the trunk lid on our Ford I put my head down and headed in the direction of the pastor’s house located just to the back of the church. In a rather dark mood from having my plans ruined I neglected to see the nice new Pontiac Chieftain parked behind and to the right of our car.
The pastor’s house was small (but still larger than the one we now lived in) and had a fairly large kitchen in the back. There seemed to be quite a little group gathered in there as I heard my father’s laugh and a few other voices I didn’t recognize. Head down, I walked up the steps and pulled open the screen door. Stepping into the warm kitchen I was a little overwhelmed with the nutty aroma of Mexican coffee and the tinkling of coffee cups on saucers. Looking up to try to find my parents I suddenly found myself staring directly at Estela’s angelic face.
“It’s about time you got here,” she said with a smile. “I almost went out to look for you but then I remembered that you probably had to put your guitar in the car. Took you long enough though.”
“Well…” I sputtered, “I didn’t know…you know…that everyone was going to be here.”
“Well,” she replied while handing me a small cup of coffee on a saucer, “not everyone, of course. Only us important people.” Tilting her head down and looking up at me she gave me the most deliciously mischievous smile. “Get it?” Then she threw her head back and snickered in the cutest way.
Standing there with one hand holding the saucer and the other hand holding the cup, I could do nothing but just look and her and smile. I wasn’t sure if the surge of pressure that was welling up in my chest was because I wanted to laugh or because I may want to cry.
Making an effort to sound normal I said, “Yeah, I get it.” That was about all I could manage at that moment.
There was a little table with two chairs set up against one wall that was probably used by the pastor’s small children. Estela pointed to it and without a word walked over pulled out one of the chairs and sat down.
As I moved towards the table I looked around for the first time since I’d entered the kitchen and saw my dad, the pastor and Mr. Ramirez in deep conversation. Mrs. Ramirez had engaged my mom, and Ricky and Becca were hanging out by the small counter where some pastries were stacked on a small tray. I set the cup and saucer down on the table and sat opposite Estela.
Elbows on the table and hands framing her chin she said, “Well, we don’t have too much time so tell me all about yourself in about thirty seconds then I’ll tell you all about me. Deal?”
“What’ll I do with the other twenty seconds?” I joked.
“Ha! That was supposed to be my line, you sneak!” We both laughed a bit too loud, and I sensed her mother’s eyes on us.
We both talked briefly about our schools and she wanted to know how I learned to play guitar. I asked how long her family had been attending that church (two years), since I hadn’t seen her in my previous visits. She looked at my brother and asked if it was just the two of us—and I asked the same of her and Becca.
Then my father called my name. “Pancho! Let’s go. You have to get some sleep.”
“Pancho?” She asked, tilting her head sideways. “That’s cute.”
“Well, I don’t think so, but that’s what they call me sometimes.”
I reluctantly pushed away from the table. “Guess I’d better get.” I said, as my dad, followed by the pastor, then her dad, went through the door and out onto the small porch.
“When will you be back?” She asked, suddenly serious.
“I don’t know. I really don’t.”
“If I gave you our phone number would you call me…I mean, just to talk? Oh, but you live in Houston so it would be long distance…” she trailed off, suddenly pensive.
It was more that I had ever imagined and I was elated. “Yes, I promise I’ll call. But I don’t know when. I mean, what would be a good time?”
Placing a finger on her lower lip, she said, “Well, maybe any time after three in the afternoon. Becca will probably answer—she always runs and gets the phone when it rings.”
“Oh, OK.” I replied. “I’ll just ask for you, right? But what if your mom or dad answer?”
“Just tell them who you are. I think they like you anyway…I can tell.”
My chest was starting to hurt and my throat was closing down fast. Mercifully, she pulled what looked like a little two-inch pencil out of her tiny purse and dug around for a scrap of paper.
“Ah, here we go.” As she spread the paper across her palm and wrote her number.
She folded the scrap several times and held it out to me with her thumb and forefinger. “There!”
“You want mine?” I asked, almost as an afterthought.
“No, not now.” She replied. “When we talk for the first time you can give it to me then. Anyway, good girls don’t go around calling boys, you know.” She gave me a charmingly silly grin.
“Oh, right.” I agreed.
I shoved the little scrap of paper into my pants pocket. “Well, I guess I’ll see you next time.” I said—not knowing what else to say.
“Not if I see you first, silly boy.” With that she walked quickly by me—so close I thought we’d actually touched. Then she was gone through the door.
My mother, Mrs. Ramirez and the pastor’s wife were slowly walking towards the door when my mom looked around to see where Ricky was.
“Oye, Frankie. Where’s your brother?” She asked, eyes darting.
“Umm, he was over there by the cookies when I last saw him. Maybe he went out to the car.”
I pushed the screen to allow the ladies to exit before me. “I’ll run out to the car; he’s probably there.”
Hurrying to our car I caught a glimpse of Estela as she was getting into the back seat of that shiny new Pontiac. I quickly waved, and getting a bit concerned about my brother looked to see if I could see him in the back seat.
Reaching the car I saw him curled up on the back seat. “He’s here Mom!” And I walked around to the other side to get in.
The ride home was quiet, the same as it had been for a few months until my dad finally broke the silence.
“You like that little Estela, don’t you, Pancho?” He asked, as I caught his eyes in the rearview mirror.
“She’s OK.” I responded, feigning disinterest as well as I could.
“Yeah, well I think you think she’s more than OK, you rascal.”
“Leave him alone Bob!” My mother snapped, sounding very angry. “Stop embarrassing him! That’s what you do best, criticize and embarrass us! And you, of all people!”
My dad shot a vicious look in her direction. “What do you mean by that?” He asked angrily!
“Ha, act like you don’t know! Acting so holy when you’re with your pals. If they knew that you’re sneaking around taking money that doesn’t belong to you, I wonder what they’d think?”
Well, that did it, and the war started. For the rest of the car ride home, and for at least an hour afterwards they argued—yelling abuses at each other. Inevitably, the subject of the church money came up and the now familiar insults and accusations took flight.
They continued to fight well after getting home and while my brother and I set up our beds in the kitchen.
“Why do they have to fight so much?” My brother sighed quietly as he crawled into his small bed. “It makes me so sad.”
“Me too.” I agreed. “But, at least they’re not yelling at us. Be thankful for that.” I added.
Finally, after the lights had been out for some time and I had dozed off only to be awakened several times by their bickering, they—probably exhausted by the intensity of the disagreement—finally quieted down. Soon I heard my mother’s soft and regular snoring. I lay there wondering why they, after claiming to having been saved and professing their love for Jesus, could still show such hatred toward each other.
Burying my head under the pillow and squeezing my eyes shut as hard as I could, I tried to picture Estela. And, on the rollaway next to mine, my brother, oblivious to our parents’ loud threats and hurtful accusations, slept peacefully.
Betrayal
Returning home from school few days after our trip to the Alvin church I saw that my mother was in a particularly good mood so I decided to ask her if I would be allowed to use the phone occasionally to talk to Estela. After putting my books down and walking into the kitchen I found her standing by the stove stirring a pot of beans and getting ready to roll out some of her fat little tortillas. She was humming some tuneless melody as I pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table.
“Hi mom. What’cha doing?”
“Hi mijito—oh, just making some beans and getting ready to cook some tortillas. “¿Quieres poly-pop? I just made some and it’s in the ice-box.” She asked cheerfully.
“Not now, but maybe later. Where’s Ricky?” I wondered out loud.
“He’s home somewhere…probably under the house. You know how he likes to play down there. I had to make him a tortilla because he was hungry when he got home from school.” She said wiping her forehead with the top of her hand.
“He’s always hungry!”
“Si, he’s not skinny like you, that’s for sure.”
“Mom, do you think I could use the phone to call someone a couple of times a week?” I thought I’d go ahead and ask while she was still in good spirits.
“Who, mijito?” She’d stopped stirring and was looking at me with a curious little smile on her face.
“Uh, just a friend, you know.”
“¿De veras, mijo? ¿Quién?” [Really? Who?]
“OK, mom! Estela! I want to call Estela!”
“Ah, Estela.” She said, pointing the wooden spoon at me. “Bueno, I think that should be OK—pero not for a long time, mijo—I think Alvin’s long distance.”
And so, for the next few weeks Estela and I began our relationship via the newly installed big black rotary phone in the front room. Since we really didn’t know each other very well, had virtually no friends in common, and lived in different cities, our conversations usually ran out of steam two or three minutes in. After that we’d just be content in asking each other where in the house we were, or what our parents and/or siblings were doing, or asking if we missed each other when we attended services at our different churches.
I asked her about her family and learned that her dad was a ranch foreman for one of the large ranches owned by a wealthy auto dealer and was located on the outskirts of Alvin. Since most of the ranch’s employees were Mexican, Mr. Ramírez pretty much ran the whole show. Sometimes, when the cattle and horses were herded into the Houston stockyards for market he would spend a week or so away from home.
When she asked me about my family I gave her the abridged version, avoiding any mention of the violent arguments my parents seemed to relish—both “pre” and “post” salvation. After running out of things to say we would have long periods of breathy silence that should’ve made us uncomfortable, but didn’t. Then during one of those many stretches of silence, and for the first time ever, she said, “Oh Frank, I miss seeing you so very much.” I thought my heart would burst—and before I thought it, I heard myself saying, “Me too, Estela—me too.”
As part of the agreement I’d made with my parents, I promised that I’d reimburse them the accumulated long distance charges with the proceeds of a little part time job that I’d managed to land at a Mexican restaurant. So as not to interfere with church services I’d agreed that I’d only work on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays—from five until nine in the evening. Also, my mother had insisted that I give her twenty-five percent of my earnings every payday to “compensate” her for all the past expenses she had incurred by raising me. Although I thought that grossly unfair I reluctantly agreed.
Working at the restaurant was grueling work, bussing messy tables and occasionally running a giant automatic dish washing machine—and all for one dollar an hour. Because of its distance from our house I had to take a bus to and from, and by the end of my shift I would board the homebound Rapid Transit smelling like a giant greasy taco and nursing my scalded fingers.
But the thing I hated the most about the job was what the restaurant manager insisted on calling me. When I was hired he told me that there were already three other employees there named Frank, and so to differentiate among us all he created different nicknames for each us. From there on out I was to be known as “Leon”. So every night that I worked I was supposed to respond to “Leon”; but for the life of me I just couldn’t get used to it. After calling out “Leon” several times, and me not responding, he’d come racing over to wherever I was and berate me for not listening.
“Leon!! I need table seventeen bussed NOW!” Or, “Leon!! Paco has to take a smoke break so I need you to run the dishwasher! HURRY!” To this day I hate the name Leon.
But, after all was said and done, I understood and accepted that these unpleasant experiences were small sacrifices that I had to endure to make it possible for me to stay in touch with Estela.
For the next few months we visited their church about every two weeks, or so—and usually on Fridays—and I recall literally tingling with anticipation as the day came closer. Once there, and when not concentrating when playing accompaniments to the hymns and coritos, my time would be spent stealing glances at Estela as she sat with her family. After the services the pastor would always invite us and the Ramirez family to his little home for coffee, and I would cherish the few minutes that I would be allowed to share with Estela. Obviously, all we could do was talk to one another, and other than a very brief handshake, no physical contact ever occurred. But for us, it seemed quite enough.
During one of our mostly silent phone calls, I suggested to Estela that maybe she could talk her parents into attending a few of our church’s Sunday night services, and that way we could see each other more. She agreed to talk to her mother. The following Sunday night as I was setting up with the other musicians on the stage, I looked up to see the Ramírez family enter our church and take their seats near the front. When my father noticed them he waved to me to join him as he walked over to greet them to the service. I was more than willing.
As time went on I began to notice a change in Estela’s parents toward me. Instead of ignoring me and speaking only to my mom and dad, they made sure to greet me warmly and seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. So, I was just a little surprised when, during one of our visits to their church, they both hugged me warmly and called me “mijo” [my son].
Even with all the arguments still going on at home between my parents, the physical demands that my part time job was making of me, and the pressure of completing my school assignments to keep my grades up, I recall those days as some of the happiest I have ever experienced. I now believe that I had truly fallen deeply in love with Estela, and she with me. Even without seeing each other very often we spoke of the existence of an invisible bond that had developed between us; and that bond grew stronger as the weeks and months wore on, and 1958 came to an end.
***
In March of 1959, our council of churches decided to hold their quarterly conference at one of our larger churches in Houston. Templo Bethel was located in a neighborhood called Magnolia Gardens, and was pastored by an elderly reverend named Andrés Guerrero, who had been there for many years. In fact, a couple of times my father had mentioned that if Reverend Guerrero kicked the bucket anytime soon, he felt that because of his loyalty (and no doubt bribery), the council may see fit to install him as pastor there. All he needed now was to somehow expedite the date of the coveted promotion to reverend, so that he’d be ready to take over.
Being the pastor of an established church like Templo Bethel, being just a bit smaller than Templo Jerusalén, would not only be a godsend but it would pretty much put an end to our stretched-to-the-limit financial condition. In fact, we would sitting pretty for many years to come. I assumed that my father would be doing a ton of politicking during the conference.
The quarterly conferences, held during an entire weekend within each quarter, was mandatorily attended by all the pastors and church officers assigned to the churches in our region. It usually kicked off on a Friday evening and concluded Sunday night with a giant evening service. This particular church, almost as large as ours, had a big detached kitchen and dining room—so breakfast, lunch, and dinner would be served on Saturday, and breakfast and lunch on Sunday.
The main purpose of the quarterly conferences was for Reverend Guillen, and his inner ring of confidantes, to scour the financial books of every church to ensure that all the tithes and offerings were properly documented; but more importantly, to ensure that he was receiving a full ten percent of each church’s income. This “tithe” was in addition to the council’s payment for his yearly salary, his monthly stipend to maintain his large residence, complete with domestic help, in Kingsville; and of course, his new Cadillac which was replaced yearly. His children, grandchildren, and various other relatives also had their formal education funded, and while in college had their living expenses taken care of.
Although worship services were held on Friday night, Sunday morning, and Sunday evening—Saturday was reserved for the public airing of each of the church’s financial books. In turn, each church’s treasurer, or pastor in the case of the very small churches, would take the pulpit—green and red ledgers in hand, and read aloud each financial entry entered for each day of the quarter. The church council’s treasurer, a licensed CPA, would then compare each entry as it was read aloud with the entries that he had personally logged at the time of receipt.
All this check and cross check financial business, instead of being conducted by the primaries in private—or at least in a room by themselves—was instead conducted in the open church with a full congregation in attendance. This, I was told, was mandatory so that the membership could see that all the church’s business was open and transparent and not conducted in secrecy. To say that this was mind-numbingly boring would be a gigantic understatement.
The sessions were conducted in two-hour segments with a thirty-minute break in between, but even so it was pure torture to sit there with nothing to do but listen to dates and numbers for two solid hours.
The week before the conference I asked Estela if her parents were planning on attending. She said she didn’t think so, as neither her father nor mother were church officials; and besides, the church membership was so small that their pastor would be able to handle their short financial disclosure in less than ten minutes. I explained to her that my interest was not in their financial statements but in my being able to see and spend a little time with her. She promised she’d talk to her folks again and let me know not later than that Friday.
At home during the week prior to the conference, my father seemed extraordinarily preoccupied with reconciling our church’s books. The tension between my mother and father was so thick you could cut it with a knife, and Ricky and I concentrated on staying out of their way whenever my parents were in the house together.
What I didn’t realize then, and only came to understand many years later, was that because of my father’s constant dipping into the church treasury, he was having great difficulty making the books balance. And my mother, never a shrinking violet, was making life hard for him by constantly reminding him that if anyone from the church ever found out, not only would we be excommunicated, it was very likely he would go to prison.
It is greatly ironic that before we became a family of devout Christians we had little or no money because my father was spending the majority of his paychecks on drinking and entertaining his friends. Now, after divine salvation, we found ourselves in the same financial predicament due to my father’s habit of using church money to wine, dine, and buy expensive gifts for his church buddies. Either way, we—his family—seemed to always be getting the short end of the stick. In the end, I don’t know how he pulled it off, (although I suspect my uncle Frank must’ve come through with a huge loan), but come Saturday our church’s books were balanced.
The Friday night service preceding the conference at Templo Bethel was so well attended that after all the pews had been filled and standing room had run out, a large group of mostly latecomers actually participated in the service while standing outside. To facilitate their participation, the reverend leading the service asked that all the windows and doors be left open so that the throng gathered outside in the front, and along the sides of the church, could partake in the service.
Since I was part of the church band my seat was guaranteed on the stage, and my father, being a church official, was seated behind the pulpit with all the other church council dignitaries. My mother and brother were seated on one of the front pews accompanied by Mrs. Villa and her family.
During the prayer prior to collecting the offering I casually looked up and while scanning the large congregation thought I saw a familiar face. Bowing my head down for a few seconds so as not to attract too much attention, I looked back up and saw Estela’s father standing against the wall next to the open front door. Next to him was his wife, but as hard as I tried, I could not find Estela or Becca. Then once everyone sat back down during the offering I saw the girls standing a few feet away from their parents. Despite the distance from the stage to the front door Estela must’ve seen that I’d found her and, raising her hand discreetly, wiggled her fingers and gave me a beautifully big smile. My heart swelled and suddenly the service became much more interesting.
After the service I didn’t bother putting my guitar in its case—just leaving it leaning on my chair. I hurried out the side door hoping to find Estela in the large and milling crowd.
“Frankie, Frankie!” I heard from behind me. Looking over my shoulder I saw that it was Becca calling my name.
“Hey, kiddo!” I cheerfully said. “Where’s the rest of your family?”
“You mean, where’s my sister, don’t you?”
“Well…that too.” I answered, with a little snicker.
“Mom and Dad are in the car waiting for us. Estela told them she had to go to the bathroom.”
“Ah, OK.”
Becca tipped her head a little and glanced behind me. “There she comes. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.” She laughed out loud…proud of her little comment.
“Becca! Stop it!” Estela said with a little irritation in her voice.
I turned, and Estela was walking toward me, at the same time grimacing at Becca.
“Make yourself useful and go tell Dad I’m on my way.” Estela ordered.
“OK, but don’t kiss too much!” With that, Becca let out a loud childish giggle and ran off, elbows flying, towards the street.
“She’s so annoying!” Estela said, exasperated.
“That’s what little sisters are for.” I answered, smiling.
She waved her hand in front of her face, as if to shoo a mosquito. “Oh, I know. But, look. I don’t have too much time since mom and dad are waiting. OK, dad took off from the ranch for this weekend, after I nagged him so much, so we’ll be here tomorrow and Sunday.”
“Really?” I said, trying to hold in my excitement. “That’s great.”
“I know. It’s just not fair that we live so far apart and can’t see each other more.” She lamented.
I wanted so much to reach out and touch her face. Instead, I forced myself to cross my arms.
“Yeah,” I said softly, “but thank God we can talk during the week.”
She looked behind me to my left and said, “Oh, oh. Here comes your dad. I’d better go.”
“See you tomorrow…” Was all I could say before she quickly turned on her heel and headed away from me.
Trying not to look too disappointed, or too interested in her receding figure, I turned to see my dad walking toward me accompanied by Villa.
“Hi dad. Reverend Villa.” I quietly said. “Dad, do I have time to get some chocolate from the comedor [dining room] before we go? Oh, and I gotta get my guitar, too.”
“Sure!” My dad answered. “I’ll see you at the car.”
As I walked by them I heard my dad continue his conversation with Villa, and I noticed Villa looking curiously at something over my shoulder.
We arrived at the church the next day at seven in the morning, even though the “accounting service” wouldn’t start for another two hours. After having some tamales and menudo for breakfast I went into the near empty church to tune my guitar and practice a bit on the piano.
I’d been on the stage for about fifteen minutes when I looked out one of the side windows and saw Estela, Becca, and her parents walking into the comedor. My heart jumped and I decided that maybe a nice cup of hot chocolate would be great right about then.
By the time I got my guitar put up and had walked out the door, I saw Estela come out of the comedor by herself holding a steaming cup of chocolate.
“Hi!” I said excitedly.
“Hola, guapo.” [Hello, handsome.] Her answer accompanied with a loving smile.
I decided that I really didn’t need anything else to drink so we just stood right outside of the comedor talking quietly. During our conversation several reverends and church members that I knew from other churches walked by and greeted us warmly. But unbeknownst to me, there was someone inside the comedor who was watching us intently.
In what seemed too little time Estela said she should go and join her family in the church as the service was just about to begin. She turned, walking to the front of the church, and I popped into the comedor to grab a polvorón [Mexican sugar cookie].
A few minutes later I was up on the stage with the rest of the band, having finished warming up the congregation with a rousing hymn. After the congregation took their seats I expected one of the reverends sitting behind the pulpit to start the proceedings by first introducing the church council’s CPA, then calling for the first church’s treasurer in the queue to come up and put us all to sleep with an endless set of droning numbers. Instead, he announced that Reverend Villa had a very important message to share with the congregation.
As Villa stood up from his chair and ambled toward the pulpit, white leather bible in hand, he shot a quick look in my direction. I smiled—he didn’t.
He stood there, almost hugging the pulpit with both hands. Then he started:
(Reverend Villa made the following comments to the congregation that morning in Spanish. But, because I do not remember everything he said word for word, I will instead paraphrase what I do remember, in English).
“May the Lord bless you and yours this morning; and may He continue to bless our council of churches. What we do today, and everyday, is dedicated to God, and the Son he sent to us to die on the cross for our wicked sins.
“Brothers, I have often spoken to the constant battle that rages every second of each day between those of us who have been saved by the blood of Jesus and baptized by the Holy Spirit, and the enemy of all that’s good and holy—Satan.
“Although we sometimes forget that he watches our every step, looking for any crack in our holy armor that he may penetrate and enter our hearts, he never rests nor does he tire. If he sees even the smallest fault in our devotion he will breach that weakness and plant his vile seed. And if we do not have the Lord as our constant protector, that seed will grow and darken our souls until we wither and fall to temptation and finally to eternal fiery oblivion. Then, our souls are lost forever.
“As one of God’s chosen shepherds here on Earth, brothers, it is my responsibility to search for and root out those vile seeds of sinfulness. Yes, it is a heavy charge, but I bear it because I am committed to protect the flock that Jesus has given me. I am constantly on the lookout for those within my flock that would stray—first a short way, then after accepting Satan’s temptation, far away into sure danger and possible death.
“Today, my beloved brothers, I have seen Satan pulling one of our young lambs away from the safety of the fold. And, in his wickedness, not satisfied with taking just one, the dark force laid his tempting trap for yet another. This… brothers and sisters, I cannot allow. I must act; I must raise the alarm; and finally, I must punish so that Satan’s future trickeries are not so tempting to these young souls.
Then, turning to face me, he solemnly said, “Little brother DeLeón, please stand.”
My heart stopped, and my legs turned to rubber. Somehow, I stood and a deep throbbing pain began pulsing deep in my guts.
He continued: “This young brother is someone I love so very much…almost as much as I do my own sons. And because I love him and the Lord loves his soul, I must do what I have to do.
Then he looked out into the congregation. After a few seconds he said: “Little sister Estela Ramírez, please stand.”
I was shaking like a leaf and I felt the bile rising in my throat. I ventured a look into the audience and found my mother. Her face was a mask of terror—her handkerchief held to her mouth and her eyes wide and brimming with tears.
Although the church was filled to capacity not a sound escaped the crowd.
A shuffle of skirts and Estela rose from her seat near the back of the auditorium. She was sobbing and her mother and father sitting next to her had their heads down. Becca was holding her hand over her mouth and crying softly.
Villa continued: “The church is hallowed ground, so sayeth the Lord. It is not a place for chicanery, nor is it a place for fornication—physical or mental.
“This, my holy brethren, is what Satan has tempted these two people to do. And this is what these two young people are guilty of. I have seen it with my own eyes.
“Perhaps the dark prince has convinced them that what they are doing is innocent. It is not! Surely, given enough time, and without holy intervention, Satan will eventually lead them from what they ‘innocently’ do today on the grounds of our holy place of worship, to eventual acts of depravity and debauchery. This, I will not allow. And I, as the ordained shepherd of this holy flock hereby step in between them and the great Satan. He will not take their souls!
“Now brothers, let us all rise and pray for these two innocents. Let us grab the devil by his very horns and throw him out! For these souls belong to the Lord and they will not be sullied.”
As if they were puppets on strings, the entire congregation rose as one. I felt as if I was going to faint, and in the space of those few minutes my shirt was soaked with sweat. A great howl sprang from the congregation as all their voices combined to yell the devil out of the church. I couldn’t move.
Unexpectedly I felt a hand touch my neck. I turned, frightened and expecting to see Satan grabbing me and pulling me down into his fiery pits. Instead I saw brother Cantú. On his face was a kindly smile. A tear rolled down his puffy cheek as he pulled me close to him. In his deep gruff voice he said, “Don’t listen to any of this my little friend. In the eyes of the Lord you have done nothing wrong. Truly, you have done nothing wrong.”
He pressed his brown forehead onto mine and whispered, “That evil man will pay in hell for what he’s done to you and that little girl here today.”
As much as I wanted to answer, I could not. My throat was clamped shut. I pulled away from his grip and somehow took the steps off the stage and ran out the side door.
In the back seat of our car I was finally able to breathe. A deep and bitter sob finally fought through and found its way from my broken heart, thundering out in the hot locked car.
***
I never saw or heard from Estela ever again.
Years later someone told me that the Ramírez family had moved out of Alvin, and had never returned to the little church. No one seemed to know, or maybe they didn’t want to say, where they had gone.
In December of the following year I kept the vow that I had made to myself that fateful day sorrowfully locked away in that hot car at Templo Bethel. Six months after high school graduation, and against my parents’ wishes and supplications, I left home and joined the United States Air Force.
I would never set foot in another Pentecostal church again.