From Sinners To Saints…Part II
Boy’s Night Out
The service that Friday night was just a bit different from what I’d seen previously. Because it was designated as “El Servicio de los Hermanos” (Brothers’ Service), it was run by, and for, the male membership of the church; and meant to nurture and strengthen the spiritual bonds among the men.
Similar services during the week, with similar goals, were categorized as Youth Night (Tuesdays—both sexes combined), and Sisters’ Night (Thursdays). Mondays and Wednesdays were reserved as special prayer circle nights where anyone with particular or pressing needs such as a serious illness, lingering family problems, or sudden catastrophes, could attend and have the prayer specialists deliver their supplications to God via special delivery. These services were sparsely attended, usually no more than five to eight of the more devout members, and lasted no more than ninety minutes. No music, no offering, no singing…but a whole lot of praying.
Saturdays were reserved for special occasions such as conferences, financial meetings attended by the church leadership, and of course forming up and dispatching various outreach raiding parties.
Even though the service that night was Brothers’ Night, there were probably more women than men in attendance, but I did notice that the pews near the front of the church were populated by men, whereas the majority of the women had migrated to the back of the auditorium.
Having taken my seat on the hard wooden pew to my mother’s left I noticed that missing from his prominent chair on the stage, and particularly from the honored place on the first pew, was the Reverend Villa and his wife. Joni was also missing, and in her place on the piano was the pathetic little girl who had played when I attended my first Sunday service a few weeks earlier. She was again torturously eliciting flats when sharps were called for, and sharps when anything else would’ve sounded better. The drummer and the bajo sexto (fat bass guitar) player were courageously trying to keep time with her uniquely halting style, and the one trumpet player who had showed up that night had apparently finally given up altogether and was busying himself by furiously polishing his already gleaming horn.
After bringing a normally soothing and solemn hymn to a ragged yet merciful end, the girl (whose name I would later learn was Magdalena) stole a quick glance at the large wall clock hanging on the wall over the piano and quickly stood up and scurried off to join her beaming family at the rear of the church. The accompanying musicians on the stage produced a very vocal and coördinated sigh of relief and the bass guitar player, casting his eyes unto heaven, pulled a huge hand towel from his back pocket and energetically mopped his soaking brow. From the congregation came a scattering of “¡Gracias a Dios!”, and “¡Gloria a JesuCristo!”—giving me the distinct impression that they were not necessarily just praising God, maybe they were sincerely thanking Him.
Just then the side door through which we had entered earlier opened and the Villa family, minus the two brothers, made their entrance. Stopping just inside the doors, the reverend, followed by his wife then Joni, threw open his arms and enthusiastically bellowed, “¡Que Dios los bendiga!” This brought the crowd around and they responded, “¡Y a usted, hermano!” The men already seated on the stage stood up respectfully, each nodding their acknowledgment of the reverend and his family.
Instead of turning right and taking his place on the stage, Reverend Villa took his wife’s arm and escorted her to her usual place on the pew just in front of us. Just as Mrs. Villa sat down the reverend looked up and captured all three of us with his jet black eyes. Placing a knee on the pew he crossed his arms on the back of the pew and addressed us.
“Ah sí,” he said. “Ustedes son la familia De León, ¿no?” (You’re the De León family, no?)
Jerking my head away from his gaze and looking at my mother to my right, I saw her with a look of sheer terror with her left hand clutching her throat and gasping as if she’d swallowed a jalapeño and her right arm tightly wrapped around my little brother’s chest. My dad, however, was doing his “Joe Cool” impression—slyly smirking while casually crossing his legs—with his right hand blindly reaching for his Camels in his breast pocket!
“That’s us brother!” My dad said, cocking his head a little to the left. “And you? You must be Reverend Villa. Right?” His Camel reaching hand stopped in mid clutch and the tips of his fingers gently caressed the pack through the shirt pocket.
“Sí hermano. Bienvenidos a nuestra iglesia.” The reverend said—his gaze sweeping us from right to left and back. Focusing on my dad and glancing quickly at the cigarettes in my dad’s pocket, he softly said, “Conozco a su hijo, Frankie. He’s been here before; and from what I hear you and your wife attended the church many years ago.” His English was heavily accented, but very precise.
“Ah, you speak English.” My dad said, completely ignoring the reverend’s comments. “And not too badly either.” He cynically added.
“Well, you know brother,” the reverend said, breaking into a wide smile that turned his eyes into black inverted crescents and caused his upper lip to pull up and away from his pearly white teeth. “Bueno…I live here in Houston, so one has to speak the language. ¿Verdad?”
Out of nowhere my mother, having regained her ability to speak and seeing that my dad was not going to introduce her, blurted, while pointing at her forehead, “And, yo am Evelyn…uh, soy Avelina…uh, De León…uh, Bob’s mother and Frankie’s wife…No! I’m married to Bob over here…” (Flashing her thumb at my dad as if hitchhiking), “…and Frankie’s my mijo…our mijo…son!”
“Encantado.” The reverend said smoothly, ignoring my mother’s blubbering blunders and extending his right hand.
Hoping my mother wouldn’t drop to her knees and kiss his hand instead of shaking it, all I could think of doing was to grin and continue to sit on my hands.
Saving the moment my dad quickly stood and instead took the reverend’s hand in a manly grip, shaking it firmly. “Igualmente.” (Likewise) My dad said just as smoothly.
Still smiling and letting my father’s hand go, Reverend Villa pushed back from the pew and put both feet on the floor. Extending his right hand, palm up, towards his wife, he looked down at her and said, “Y les presento mi señora, Señora Villa.”
Mrs. Villa shifted her body slightly to the right, and still sitting, looked directly at my mother, smiling.
“Que gusto, Señora De León.” She said while extending her right hand over the back of her pew, palm down and three fingers out.
Stuttering, my mother managed to say, “Sí, me too…también..” She gripped Mrs. Villa’s three fingers with her entire hand and began to pump them vigorously.
Mrs. Villa’s natty little black hat did a slight slide to the right and then down towards her forehead before she was able to wrench her three fingers from my mother’s gyrating fist.
“Hey Frank!” An angel voice from my left. “Glad you came back—and, without your thug friend!” Joni added with a twinge of laughter.
“Oh, hi! I said, swiveling left to face her. “Yeah, I came with my parents tonight.”
Looking over my head she said, “Oh, glad to meet you!” And gave them a little wave. “OK”, As she rubbed her hands together, “…gotta go warm up the crowd. See you after the service.”
“Yeah, that kid that plays before you come in is pretty bad.”
“Well, she’s just learning…so give her a break.”
“I know…OK, see ya.”
With that she spun on her heel and floated off towards the piano. The band perked up noticeably, and my heart did a little somersault.
Turning back to my parents I saw that my dad was now standing and was conversing with the reverend. His stance said it all: legs slightly apart and leaning a tad right, weight on his right leg, arms tightly crossed in front of his body, his head tilted up and cocked right, and a smile on his lips that was just north of a sneer. He certainly wasn’t buying whatever the reverend was selling.
My mother, was sitting on the edge of the pew, chin resting in the palm of her right hand, staring at the back of Mrs. Villa’s head. She seemed a bit dazed.
“Mom, are you OK?” I said as I sat back down and slid a bit closer to her.
“Sí mijo; what time is it?” Now this was number one of my mother’s many classic eccentricities. Anytime she was stressed, confused, or embarrassed she would either stare intently at the watch on her wrist, as if it were some alien growth—if no one was around—or ask what time it was if someone was around. This was her way of changing the subject.
“Oh, almost seven. Why?” I knew why.
“¡Mira!” (Look!) She said then, while pointing with her left index finger to some random point in space. This then was eccentricity number two. Whenever she found that eccentricity number one hadn’t worked she resorted to eccentricity number two. Normally anyone would turn to see what she was pointing at just to find nothing to see at all. Turning back to ask what it was that she was pointing at my mother would then coolly respond, “Oh, nada.” (Nothing). And hurriedly change the subject.
“Mom, stop it, there’s nothing there. What’s wrong?”
“Mira.” As she pointed at an opposite point in random space.
“Mom! Stop it!”
“Oh you!” This was her patented “go-to” remark when she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
I sat back and looked over to where Joni was taking her place at the piano. After adjusting her posture she addressed the musicians with a look then dipped her head as a downbeat. They then began to play an energetic little hymn that prompted Reverend Villa to end his conversation with my dad, shake his hand, and turn to walk regally to the stage to take his seat next to the pulpit.
A little after seven Joni brought the song to a thundering conclusion—eliciting a bunch of holy accolades from the audience, then she quickly took her place on the first pew on the left side of the church. One of the men onstage, who always seemed to be sitting in the same chair on the opposite side of Reverend Villa, slowly stood and took center stage. The congregation quieted down as he shuffled back and forth through the pages of his bible trying to find his bookmark with one hand while adjusting his reading glasses with the other. Having finally found his place he looked up, focused on the congregation over his readers, and cleared his throat.
“Buenas noches hermanos. Voy a leer un verso y entonces vamos a orar para darle gracias a Dios por la oportunidad de servirle.” (I’m going to read a verse then we’re going to pray to thank God for giving us the opportunity to serve Him.)
After reading a (thankfully) small verse, he peered over his readers into the audience, and after scanning the crowd, pointed and said, “Hermano González, llévanos en oración, por favor.” (Brother González, please lead us in prayer.) As everyone rose from their seat, a small dark man on the left side of the church quickly raised both his arms high to heaven and enthusiastically launched into a spirited supplication. In a loud and slightly hoarse voice he began by calling out the Lord and beseeching Him to descend upon this church tonight to seek out the very souls of all the condemned sinners who were surely on the road to eternal flaming Hell. This seemed to energize the crowd and they responded with an undulating chorus of sacred affirmations, a few whoops and a bunch of “¡Sí Señor!” I got the distinct feeling that they were all talking directly to, and precisely about, us. So I dared not look up, fearing I’d see divine lightning bolts rushing down from heaven to exterminate our sinful souls. Mercifully Hermano González finally brought his pleadings to an end and we all sat back down—sinful souls intact.
The rest of the service followed the familiar pattern that I had already experienced before, except that the majority of the testimonials, along with the usual Biblical verse recitations, and the gathering of the offering, were performed specifically by men. Looking around when I could I saw that the female membership seemed content to just sit quietly in their pews furiously fanning themselves with the little paper fans and occasionally shushing a child here and there.
Endurance
Where this service differed from the others that I’d attended was the notable lack of spiritual intensity that I had previously observed. Although the structure of the service was basically the same, it seemed to me to be more businesslike and less gospel-like.
As an example, during one part of the service just before the sermon and the service closing activities, another male member, who had sat in one of the chairs on the stage, took over the pulpit and began reading entries from a green bookkeeping ledger. Items included offering totals for the four Fridays in the month, expenditures directly related to the male oriented church activities, and results of self-directed tasks in regards to church building repairs, maintenance and upkeep. All very boring stuff to a young teen who was more interested in daydreaming a few impossible romantic scenarios—all involving the red-haired piano player.
The service ground on and on until it was finally time for the sermon. Fully expecting Reverend Villa to majestically rise and (literally) wake the masses with his magnificent vocal delivery, I was instead surprised to hear the director of the service introduce a small fidgety young man who had apparently been sitting on the stage hidden from view behind the pulpit all along.
With an exaggerated sweeping flourish of his right arm, the service director announced, “¡Hermanos, ahora con la palabra de Dios les presento nuestro amado hermano Vicente Aguilar!” (…now with the word of God I present to you our esteemed brother…).
As he left his chair and shuffled slowly towards the pulpit the little guy appeared to be sweating profusely and looked not unlike a death row convict being led to his ultimate demise. In his left hand he was carrying a bible that looked like it weighed more than he did, and in his left dangled a huge red and black bandana. My mother, staring intently, quickly brought her left index finger up to tightly purse her lips in order to suppress a giggle that desperately needed to be let out. Others in the congregation weren’t quite so successful.
Reverend Villa, perhaps sensing that perhaps some of the evening’s holy decorum was quickly evaporating suddenly stood, and in a booming voice addressed the heavens.
“¡Aleluia, y Gracias a Dios!”
Instead of having the intended calming effect on the audience that Reverend Villa probably wanted, his supplication came so abruptly and with such volume that it rattled the already fidgety Brother Aguilar and caused him to lurch back and to the right. His eyes bulging like freshly peeled boiled eggs his feet tangled and he went down to the floor, bible flying and bandana flapping.
My mother, unable to contain herself any further, let out a little snort, looked at my father, and pointed her finger into random space. “Mira”.
Dad, legs casually crossed while regally leaning back with his arms spread and resting on the back of the pew, slowly turned and gave my mother a blank stare quietly mouthing, “Vieja loca.”
Never one to be left out of embarrassing activities, my little brother Ricky, who was sitting between my parents, let out a yelp as the brother went down, and quite unexpectedly, and very loudly, farted. His butt cheeks, constrained hard together into the old wooden pew compacted the passing gas in such a manner that when suddenly released it resonated in a tortured, squealing high C. What Reverend Villa had not been able to carry out, my brother did—the whole place went dead quiet.
Looking up between the fingers of the hand that I’d used to hide my face I saw Joni glancing over her right shoulder and looking directly at me. Smiling sweetly she winked, licked her lips and quickly moved over to the piano bench. Taking her cue, Reverend Villa rushed over and helped the struggling brother up to his feet—pointing him in the direction of the pulpit.
“¡Vamos a cantar un corito, hermanos!” (Let’s sing a little chorus, brothers!) The reverend announced as he handed Brother Aguilar his humongous bible and tent-like bandana.
Joni launched into a spirited tune while the harried supporting musicians rushed to bring their instruments to bear. Tambourines rang out from the mostly female crowd in the back and everyone stood up, clapping in time, joining in the joyful din, seemingly quickly forgetting the struggling Brother Aguilar.
Having regained his feet with the reverend’s help, and now firmly positioned behind the pulpit, Brother Aguilar wiped his brow and nervously began to look for his lost place in his extra-large bible. Reverend Villa, almost overpowering the entire congregation with his deeply echoing baritone voice, encouraged the crowd with exaggerated band leader-like arm gestures, then closed his eyes and raised his head high.
When the chorus ended in a hail of “alleluia, gracias Señor, and gloria a Dios”, and everyone had again taken their seat, Brother Aguilar looked nervously at the crowd and timidly began his sermon. It was dreadful, and it seemed to last forever. Mumbling, stumbling, and often completely losing his entire train of thought, it was an exercise in total confusion. Even the most faithful in the crowd began to express their impatience by yawning long and loud and trailing it off with a long-winded “alleluia”.
Throughout this painful ordeal I noticed Reverend Villa maintaining a sort of stoic presence; a physical façade that included hands clasped reverently on his lap, eyes glancing dreamily at some point in space, and head nodding occasionally in agreement when Brother Aguilar tried to make a salient point. Interestingly though, several times I noticed that the reverend would suddenly look directly at my dad—holding his gaze steady until my dad met his in return. Was that a veiled smile that crossed Villa’s face as his eyes darted up and away, and broke the connection?
Dad, alternately crossing his legs, wore a bored expression—and except for the times he intercepted the reverend’s stare—sat perfectly still, alternately stroking his silk tie and the pack of Camels in his breast pocket.
My brother had fallen asleep still sitting on the pew, his head resting on my mother’s lap; while she, however, seemed to be in another world—slowly fanning herself mechanically and rocking dreamily to some soothing mental melody.
I was bored beyond words and spent each eternal minute getting intimately reacquainted with my fingers, nails, cuticles and palms.
Much later, and when we had become regular church-goers, I came to understand that on Brothers’ Night (as was the custom with all the other designated nights) someone from that particular segment of the church membership was always chosen as guest sermon giver for the evening. Ostensibly this gave that particular group some measure of ownership for their respective services, while also assisting the church leadership in discovering any potential future preachers hidden within the lay population. Unfortunately for Brother Aguilar on this night, everyone in attendance (and probably him too) knew he would never make that cut.
He ended the sermon much like he’d started: mumbling into this bible while mopping his brow and occasionally looking up at the congregation as if seeing them for the first time.
Then, mercifully he said, “Bueno, ya acabé”. (OK, I’m finished). “Dios los bendiga.”
The paper fans in the audience suddenly shifted into a faster gear and long numbed butts began to slide into new and cooler areas of the pews. Joni stood up and moved to the piano bench as the other musicians flexed fingers, wet lips and twirled drumsticks. Reverend Villa left his seat and tightly embraced a slightly befuddled Brother Aguilar, who finally extricating himself from Villa’s loving bear hug, looked around smiling—as if he’d just been ransomed out of captivity.
Joni and her group began to play the usual service closing hymn as Reverend Villa took possession of the pulpit and proceeded to officially close the service.
The Personal and Painful Touch
As we were gathering ourselves to leave, Mrs. Villa turned around and addressed my mother:
“It was really nice to see all of you together here in our church tonight. Did you enjoy the service?”
“Oh, shure.” My mother said gleefully while trying to get Ricky to stand. “It was very nice.”
“Well, don’t leave yet because my husband would like to speak to you and your husband in private.”
“¡Oye, Bob! ¿Oiste a la hermana?” (Hey, Bob! Did you hear the sister?) My mom spoke to my dad’s back as he was hurriedly getting his hat and mapping out a rapid escape route to tame the raving nicotine beast.
“¿Qué?” Dad said, looking annoyingly back at mom.
“Dice que el reverendo quiere hablar con nosotros.” (She says the reverend wants to speak to us.) Mom explained.
Now turning to face Mrs. Villa my dad looked down longingly at the sweet-smelling pack of cigarettes in his shirt, then looked up and said, “Well, OK. But we gotta go pretty soon.”
Mrs. Villa looked up to the stage where her husband was enthusiastically shaking Brother Aguila’s hand, and probably congratulating him for not totally alienating his entire congregation. Waving her hand at her husband to attract his attention she turned and said to my parents, “He’s on his way down and I know he really wants to speak to you.” My dad looked annoyed, my mom looked confused, my brother looked cranky and hungry; and I looked at Joni.
“Mom,” I said, seizing a visible opportunity. “I’m going to go up to talk to the musicians while you talk to the reverend. OK?”
As she turned to look to my dad for approval, Mrs. Villa said, “Frankie, that’s a good idea. You should meet brother Cantú. He’s the one that plays the big bass guitar. And also Tommy. He’s one of the trumpet players—and did you know his name is De León, also? But he’s not related, I’m sure.”
I really didn’t care to meet either one of those guys, I just wanted to talk to Joni.
“Oh!” I said, mocking interest and surprise. “Yeah, that would be great. If it’s OK with my parents, I mean.”
Completely ignoring my mom and dad, who were now in a quiet discussion with each other, Mrs. Villa said, “Sure, why don’t you go over there and I’ll come and get you when your parents are ready to leave.” She touched my mother’s shoulder. “Está bien, Señora De León, ¿verdad?”
Mom turned back to me and said, “OK, go! Pero, be ready to go when we are!” My dad was looking wistfully through a window out at the dark parking lot.
“Hey, can I go too?” My brother asked.
“NO!” I quickly answered. Then, whispering in his ear, “You stay here with mom and dad, pedoso.” (Farty).
He made a face and looked as if he was going to say something else, or maybe try to smack me; and I quickly turned and hurried off to where Joni was talking to a girl and the musicians were packing up.
“Hey Joni?” I called as I walked up.
She looked over her shoulder, and for a split second I thought I sensed a look of displeasure cloud her face. “Oh…hi. I thought you’d left already.”
“No, your dad wants to talk to my parents so I thought I’d come over to say hello while they talk.”
“Yeah, well I’m kind of busy talking to Susana here. Why don’t you introduce yourself to brother Cantú?” She turned away briskly and picked up her conversation with Susana, who was staring at me as if she was looking at a giant green amoeba.
Well, I could’ve cared less about meeting the bass guy, or the other guy on the horn. All I had really wanted to do was to talk to Joni. But now for the first time in my life as I stood there by myself and with no one to talk to, I became painfully aware of who I really was; and I felt shame.
My head dropped and I noticed my cheap, scuffed brown shoes, sitting just below my almost too short black cotton pants, hitched up with a tattered olive drab military style belt, topped with a clownishly large thin white shirt; and I became pitifully aware of a deep throbbing emptiness in the pit of my stomach. That very moment would mark the very first time, but certainly not the last, that I would experience humiliation, rejection, and deep shame. Sadly, I was so young and inexperienced that I just had no way of dealing with the feelings that were now ripping through my soul. So I did the only thing I could: I turned, swiftly walking away, my suddenly moist eyes sweeping the church for my parents—but they were gone.
Not knowing exactly where to go I looked around the rapidly emptying church to see if I could spot my parents and brother. Nothing. I dared not look behind me to see if Joni was still engaged in conversation with Susana, so I just slowly walked back to the pew where we’d been and sat heavily down.
Pulling back into the quiet security of my mind, I sat looking out the window. I saw groups of people slowly moving towards their vehicles while swerving headlights bounced gently, illuminating the white crushed shell parking lot—sharp shadows masking its countless potholes. Just outside the church’s side door, gleaming in the mix of soft moonlight and piercing headlamps, sat the Villa’s new Buick. In the moist warmth of the waning Houston evening the car looked cool and slick, and I wondered how it would feel to sit on its smooth leather seats, the engine purring, the wind in my face…
“¡Pancho!” My mother’s sharp voice pierced my dream. “¡Ven, ya nos vamos!” (Come, we’re leaving).
My dad was already out in the parking lot heading hurriedly in the direction of our little black Dodge, and my mom, standing by the side door and looking impatient, kept pawing the air with her left hand, motioning me to get up and get.
Settling in next to my brother into the sticky and stained felt covering the back seat I asked, “So, what did you all talk about? And, where did you go? I kept looking for you but I couldn’t find you.”
“¡Nada!” My mother curtly announced.
“Mom!” You were gone for a long time. What were you talking about?”
“Bob, tell your son to mind his own business!”
My father, sucking hard on an unfiltered Camel, and creating a dull yellow glow that framed his head in the dark car, just kept looking straight ahead and said nothing.
“Bob!” My mother implored.
I caught my father’s eyes in the rear view mirror.
“Dad, what was going on?”
Finally, “Did you hear your mother? Now shut-up and sit back!”
Ricky piped up: “They just talked about God.”
“¡Callate!” My mother yelled at Ricky. “¿Que sabes tu?” (What do you know?)
“I know you talked to the man and the lady about God. And I know Dad said, ‘bullshit’”.
My mother spun around in her seat. “Alright you! Your father said to shut up!! And that means you too Ricardo!! SHUT UP!”
With that my brother sunk down into the seat, brought his legs up off the floor, and buried his head between his knees. I turned my head and pretended to be interested in the passing scenery that I could barely see through the little triangular window in the coupé.
“Besides,” My mother added, belatedly. “I saw you talking to that red-haired Villa girl. I think you like her. Don’t you?”
There was a sharp pang in my gut and a lump in my throat suddenly made it hard to talk. “No.” I softly mumbled.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“He said he didn’t like her.” My brother volunteered, in a whiny mocking voice.
Annoyed, I turned and whacked him on the leg; and, of course, he retaliated by taking a swing at my head.
“STOP IT!!” My mother yelled, as she turned to kneel in her seat, facing us with her left up and her fist cocked. “Stop it!”
I turned away from them both and wondered why the lump in my throat had grown so big.
Scrunched tightly against between the back seat and the side of the car I could feel her hot eyes darting from me to my brother and back, and sensed her intense anger. “You wait until we get home! Then we’ll see who’s who and what’s what!” She said through clenched teeth. I never did understand what that really meant, but it was one of my mother’s favorite lines and it usually brought all sorts of mayhem to an immediate screeching halt. (Until we got home).
Chain smoking by lighting each new cigarette with the stub of the one already in his mouth, my father remained thoughtfully silent all the way home.
Careful What You Wish For
The seemingly minor incidents occurring in that church on that warm summer night would set into motion events that would forever change our family in so many ways. And, only after many years did I come to the realization that on that particular Friday evening something extraordinary had happened. For the first time, and for as long as I could remember, my father had come home from work, had dinner with, and had spent the rest of the evening in the company of his family. And on the following Saturday morning he had awakened in his our home and in his own bed, sober.
After getting up late that morning, and after taking my usual leisurely bath, I was surprised to see my dad sitting at the kitchen table dressed in an undershirt (wife beater) and khaki pants, drinking a cup of black coffee and reading the newspaper. Since we obviously didn’t have a subscription I assumed he’d gone somewhere to pick up a copy; probably King’s Super Market.
On a small platter in the center of the table were a few fresh Mexican pastries; and the sight of that in itself was enough to make me giddy.
“Hey boy.” He said, not looking up from the paper.
“Hi dad.”
“Go put some clothes on and come join me. I got some pan de huevo and a couple of empanadas here with your name on ‘em.”
“Really?” I exclaimed, suddenly needing to pee.
“Sure boy!” He said looking up while taking a long drag on his Camel. Tipping his head back he blew a couple of perfectly round smoke rings. He watched them hit the ceiling and evaporate. “How you like your coffee?”
“Huh? Oh…I don’t know. I don’t drink coffee. It’s too bitter.”
“Well, us De Leóns like our coffee like we like our women: hot and black!” He winked at me, threw his head back and broke into a deep belly laugh that quickly morphed into a phlegmy racking cough. “Shit boy, that’s funny. (cough, cough) Don’t you think?” He said, digging out a raggedy handkerchief and loudly blowing his nose.
“Oh, yeah…black…I get it…sure.” I stammered.
“OK, ándale, go get out of that towel, boy. We got man business to take care of today!”
I went into the next room to search the chester-drawers for some underwear and a pair of jeans, but my mother already had some clothes laying out of her bed.
“Mom? What’s dad doing here?” I whispered, squatting down beside the bed to drop my towel and jump into my boxers.
“Never mind that! Hurry up and get dressed. He wants to do something with you today.
“What?” I asked, pulling my thin t-shirt over my head. “Is Ricky going too?”
“No!” Through clenched teeth. “Pronto, he’s in a good mood.”
“OK. He wants me to drink coffee.”
“Bueno, I’ll make some more.” She said, as she headed to the kitchen.
“NO! I don’t like coffee. Can I have milk?”
“Shh! Look, if he wants you to drink coffee, you’ll drink coffee.” She hissed right next to my ear.
From the kitchen my father yelled, “Hey, what’s going on in there? Sounds like a bunch of damn snakes! Pancho! Get in here!”
“!Mira, vez! Now he’s mad. If he leaves it’ll be your fault. Now get in there now!”
“Fine!” I said.
Sauntering back into the kitchen I pulled up a chair while my mother started rattling some pans and running some water.
“So,” my dad said. “You don’t like coffee, huh?”
“No, I’d rather have milk with my empanada.”
Getting up from the table, he said, “OK, tell you what. You gotta learn to be a man sometime.” He opened the ice box. “So if you want to drink milk then it’ll have to be buttermilk.”
He took out a quart of unopened buttermilk and pulled an old jelly glass out of the cabinet over the sink.
“Uh, no dad! I’ll have the coffee. If you make me drink buttermilk I’ll vomit.”
“OK, suit yourself.” He poured the white thick liquid into the glass. “I think I’ll have a glass then.” He sat back down and licked his lips. “Um, that looks good.”
Just looking at the putrid smelling liquid with clumps of God knows what, made me nauseous.
While I was eating my empanada and trying to sip the boiled black coffee (mom didn’t brew, she boiled the grounds, then poured the whole thing into a cup) between my teeth to filter the grounds out, my dad folded the paper, gulped the last of his buttermilk, and pushed away from the table.
“Time to get to work!” He announced.
“Work?” My mom asked while rinsing out the cups and glasses. “I thought you were staying home.”
“I am! Gonna do a little work on the car. It’s been making some funny noises so I’m gonna try to find out what the problem is.”
Well, that was bad news. As great a mechanic as my father was, whenever he tinkered with our own car it would always turn out badly. Other peoples’ cars would run like new after he worked on them, but our car would normally not run at all after one of his repair sessions. Eventually he’d get it back running again only to tell us that while trying to fix what he thought was wrong in the first place, he’d found a bunch of other things wrong and had to fix them. At the end of the day our car would still be suffering from its “original problem”; but at least it was running. So off he went that morning, whistling a jaunty tune.
The next day I was awakened early by my mother. “Get up, your dad needs to get to the stove.”
“What? Dad? Why?” Since I slept in the kitchen next to the stove I’d have to put up my roll away bed before anyone could get to the stove.
“¡Sí, pronto!”
I wondered just what the heck was going on as I started to fold up my bed. “What’s going on? What time is it?”
“When you finish with the bed, go get into the tub and take a quick bath. Your dad’s going to cook breakfast, then after we eat we’re going to shursh.”
“What? Is there hot water? Church?”
“No! You have to take a bath with cold water. It’s summer anyway and it’s hot. So don’t be a sissy. Get in there!!”
“What’s dad going to cook? We don’t have anything to eat but Post Toasties.”
“OK, Pancho! He got up early and already went to the store and bought eggs y queso. And we already have frijoles y tortillas. So, go!!”
Climbing into the cold porcelain tub I kept wondering if I was still dreaming. Eggs? Cheese? Dad cooking? The first pan full of cold tap water over my head assured me that I was indeed wide-awake.
Until that day I had no idea my dad could cook. Turned out he was pretty good. While I was getting my clothes on he yelled from the kitchen if I liked my eggs “sunny side up”. I had no idea, but said, “Sure!” I don’t think I’d ever even had eggs for breakfast. At least I couldn’t remember if I had or not.
“OK.” My dad yelled back. “Hurry, you don’t let sunny sides get cold.”
I hurried—mostly because the house suddenly smelled glorious and my stomach was growling mightily. Was that bacon I smelled? I cruised into the kitchen where my mother was just setting down a small pan of refried beans and a small stack of warmed over tortillas.
“Siéntate.” She said. (Sit down.) “Hay vienen los huevos.” (Here come the eggs.)
That had to be the strangest Sunday ever; a complete breakfast with bacon, and a full glass of milk. Sitting at the table with my mother, father and brother made me feel almost claustrophobic; as the table was so small we were literally bumping elbows.
As I started to hungrily devour my eggs, sunny side up, I saw that my dad didn’t have any eggs on his plate at all. There were frijoles, a couple of strips of bacon, and one of mom’s saucer-sized thick tortillas. Instead of coffee there was a big glass (I’d seen it sitting all alone at the back of the cabinet, but had never seen it used) filled to the brim with what I assumed was buttermilk. That was my father’s usual beverage of choice when beating down one of his massive hangovers. But as I looked closer at the glass I noted the liquid’s slightly yellow tinge and the small head of tannish colored foam at the top. That was not buttermilk.
“Hey dad.” I managed to ask while chewing juicily on a succulent slice of bacon. “What’cha drinking?”
Before answering me he picked up the glass and took three mighty gulps—bringing the level down to mid-glass.
“Ponche.” He said, smacking his lips.
Now, “ponche” is the Spanish word for “punch” in English. So I was a little confused.
“Huh? Ponche? What kind of ponche?”
“The kind that real men drink for breakfast. My parents used to make this for us when we were kids. Wanna try it?”
“Sure.” I said reaching across the table to take the large glass from his hand.
Putting the glass up to my lips I sensed a faint aroma of cinnamon. I took a slug.
“What do you think?” My dad asked, with a little twinkle in his eye.
It tasted like sweetened milk and cinnamon, but had a thick, rather slimy, consistency.
Swallowing, I said, “Um, it’s not bad. But it’s a little slimy. What’s in it?”
My mother snorted as a suppressed giggle escaped her throat.
Taking his glass back, he said, “Oh, that would be the raw eggs you’re tasting.”
“RAW EGGS?? THERE ARE RAW EGGS IN THAT?”
Not being able to restrain herself any further, my mom cackled out loud and slapped me on the back of the head.
“¡Ay, Pancho tonto!” She managed to say between peals of laughter. “Your dad really put one over on you.”
My brother, never missing an opportunity to add to my misery, said, “Yeah, tonto!”
“Dad,” I managed to say, feeling the swallow of ponche trying to find its way back out. “You’re kidding, right? There’s no eggs in there, are there?”
Taking the glass and putting it back up to his lips he drained the remaining ponche, licked his lips, and slapped his belly. “Ah, that’s good! Sure mijo, six raw eggs. That’s how I had my eggs this morning; in the ponche.”
I thought I was going to vomit.
“If I hadn’t told you there were raw eggs in there would you’ve known? Did you taste them?” He asked.
Taking my mind off my feelings of nausea, I reevaluated. “Well, no…”
“Well, there it is! Mind over matter. Now finish your breakfast, we have to leave soon.”
He went back to scooping the refried beans with his tortilla and humming a catchy little tune. My mother gleamed at me, wiggling her eyebrows while covering her mouth with her paper napkin—surely hiding a silly grin—and my brother resumed eating while repeating “tonto, tonto, tonto” between mouthfuls. Suddenly I felt just fine.
***
The Sunday service was not much different from those I’d attended with Robert and his family, except now I was with my family. During the service Reverend Villa pointed us out to the congregation and asked everyone to welcome us to the House of God. We were asked to stand and a special prayer was said, led by the reverend himself. He thanked God for bringing us to his humble fold and asked that He make His presence known to us. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but my mother nodded her head with her eyes closed and said, “Sí, Señor.”
My dad was uncommonly attentive during the service and I noticed that his pack of Camels was not in its usual place in his shirt pocket. After the segregated Sunday school classes reconvened in the main auditorium I saw that my dad had been given a pamphlet which he was reading with great interest.
After the Sunday service was over, the reverend and his wife made a bee line to where we were sitting and cordially invited us to join them, and some of the more important church officials, to lunch. To my surprise my parents accepted their invitation and after leaving the church parking lot we followed the Villas—them, in the gleaming new Buick, and us, put-putting along in our wheezy little black Dodge—to a Mexican restaurant a few miles from the church.
After the meal, which I was unable to finish due to still being full from breakfast, the group began to debate various religious scenarios involving the Apostles. I was surprised to see my dad take an active part in the discussions; he sure knew more about the bible than I had ever imagined.
My mother made small chit-chat with Mrs. Villa, and occasionally looked at me while pointing into random space saying, “Mira”.
Although Joni didn’t come along for lunch, I still wondered why she suddenly acted as if she’d never seen me before. Earlier, during the Sunday service our eyes had met once—and she just looked right through me expressionless before turning away. Although I’d never heard the phrase before, I subconsciously acknowledged that “she was way out of my league.” Even being friends was probably out of the question. Time to move on I guess.
On the way home in the car, after leaving the restaurant, my father announced that we only had a few hours before we’d have to leave to go back to church to attend the Sunday evening service.
“Dad?” I said, tentatively. “I have a lot of homework that I still have to finish before tomorrow. Can I stay home?”
Pulling the rear view mirror down to focus on me, he said sternly, “No, you can do that after we get back home tonight.”
“Dad! I’ll be up all night. We won’t get back until after ten. I can’t do that!”
In the mirror his eyes narrowed, and using a tone I’d not ever heard before, he growled, “Pancho. This discussion is over. Now shut up!”
More shocked than hurt; I turned away and concentrated on looking out the side window.
Ricky whispered, “Tonto, tonto, tonto.”
My mother pointed out her window and said, “Mira.”
