From Sinners To Saints…Part III
A Hint of Things to Come
After returning home from our having lunch at the Mexican restaurant I quickly changed clothes and went out into our little back yard to sit quietly on the steps leading out from the back door. I was trying to decide if I had enough time to do my book report, complete twenty-five math problems, and work on my history assignment in the two hours I had before having to get ready to leave again, when my mother came out and asked if I wanted a baloney sandwich before getting ready for the evening service.
“No, I’m still not hungry.”
“¿Bueno, entonces quieres un vaso de poly-pop? Tu hermano is having one.” (Do you want a glass of Kool-Aid? Your brother is….) My mother always called Kool-Aid, “poly-pop; and no, I don’t know why.
“Sí. I guess.” I responded, a little dejected. “Mom, I didn’t do any homework on Saturday thinking that I could do it on Sunday night. Now I’ll have to stay up all night to get it done and probably fall asleep in school tomorrow. Why do we have to go back to church tonight?”
“Look,” She said pointing her finger at me and lowering her voice almost to a whisper. “All I know is that your father is home this weekend, and that I owe to that little church and those people; especially el Reverendo Villa. So don’t go ruining this by making your father angry. He was really mad at you in the car, and I was afraid he was just going to drop us off and go out drinking.”
“So, now it’s my fault he drinks?” I responded, matching her whisper.
“No, but I don’t want anything to make him angry enough to take off like he likes to do.”
I didn’t know what else I could say to her so I just shrugged and said, “Fine. What time do we have to leave?”
“No se mijo, but I think maybe around six.”
Well, I thought, that left me with about ninety minutes to see how much of the book report I could punch out.
I heard the screen door close behind me and listened as my mom’s shuffling steps retreated back into the house. “¿Oye viejo!” She yelled. “You want some coffee? I can make some for you.”
“Yeah!” He yelled back from the front room of the house. “Bring it out to me in the front yard. I want to take a look at the parking brake on the car before we have to go.”
Great, I thought. Maybe he’ll dick up the car and we won’t be going anywhere after all.
Not being in the mood to get into my books right then I decided to sit there and think things over. I had noticed a slight change in my father’s attitude in the last couple of days, and for sure he hadn’t gone on one of his usual weekend benders, but he was still smoking his normal two to three packs of Camels every day, so I couldn’t help but wonder just how long he’d hold out before he succumbed to whatever pleasure he derived from drinking down those bottles of Four Roses Whiskey straight—without the benefit of a glass.
He had displayed an unusually benevolent temperament towards my mother since Friday; actually conversing with her for more than just a few minutes, and not baiting her into one of their knockdown drag-out arguments. But his almost violent reaction to me earlier in the car had taken me by complete surprise. Usually he never had much to do with me or Ricky, as far as discipline was concerned—that was usually my mother’s specialty; and for the most part he was always civil and liked to joke with us more than anything else. He also never seemed too concerned with my performance in school—never asking me anything about my course loads or even what subjects I was taking. While my mother carefully looked over my report cards, scrutinizing every detail and asking why a “B” was not an “A”, and…“that conduct grade, it should be higher…” he would just casually glance at the card and quickly scrawl his signature on the back.
I had never been afraid of my father in the same way as I was of my mother. Getting on her bad side usually meant that there’d be hair pulling, pinching, slapping, and most of all, yelling. This, by the way, went on all the way through my teenage years but stopped abruptly after I graduated from high school and started working.
For the most part my father had never really displayed a “bad side” to me; so, after an episode of having been disciplined (whipped) by my mother, it was normal for me to tearfully protest my “abuse” to him whenever he came home from work. After hearing me out he would usually just pat me on the head, or (less frequently) give me a little hug and tell me he’d have a talk with her. Those small discussions always made me feel better, probably because I was just looking for some sympathy, but mostly because I actually thought he’d intercede on my behalf and read my mother the riot act. In reality he was just paying me lip service and staying above the fray.
All in all though, and until I left home in December of 1960, my father and I got along pretty well—particularly before times got hard with the medical bills and my mom’s unplanned, and financially devastating, pregnancy. After my brother was born and my mother came down with kidney stones our life went downhill fast, and pretty much stayed there.
Well before those events came to pass there were two particular experiences involving me and my dad that will forever stand out in my memory. The first, pleasant and prophetic; the other, frightening and tragic. So for just a little bit now, and before I continue detailing what transpired that Sunday afternoon and evening, I’d like to digress and revisit those experiences; both of which would end up having a profound effect on me and my future.
Reflections
The Airport
Hobby Airport, located south of the Houston Metro area off the Old Galveston Road (now I45) and Telephone Road, was the only major airport that served my hometown for many years before the Intercontinental Airport (now George Bush Intercontinental Airport) was built in 1957.
One day, probably around 1949, my parents and I were in our car returning from a day-long fishing trip at the free piers at Galveston Island when I happened to see an airplane flying very low in the sky.
“Daddy, daddy, look at that airplane!” I yelled excitedly from the back seat. “Where’s he going? Is he going to crash?” I quickly scooted from the right side of the backseat to the left to keep the rapidly descending plane in sight.
“No mijo,” my dad responded as he craned his neck towards the windshield to find the plane. “He’s probably just landing at the airport over there.” He pointed out the left window.
“An airport? Is there an airport over there? Is it close? Can we go see? Please!”
“Yeah, it’s the Hobby Airport, but I don’t know if we have time to go over there.”
“Please daddy? Please!” I begged.
He looked at my mom and shrugged his shoulders. “What do you think, vieja? We can turn left here on Telephone Road and drive by the airport for a little while. It’s still early and I think they have a little parking area where we can stop and watch the planes take off and land.”
“Oh, I don’t care.” Mom said off-handedly. “As long as we don’t stay too long…I have to go to the bathroom soon.”
“OK.” He said. “There’s a Gulf station about a block from the airport. We can stop there and while you go to the rest room I’ll get us all a Coke. Then we can park for a little while and watch the planes. What do you think, Pancho?”
“Oh yeah!” I yelled with glee. “And are we really all getting a Coke?”
“Sure.” He said, as his eyes smiled at me in the rearview mirror.
And so it was that on day my fascination with airplanes, and aviation in general, began. Practically every weekend after that day, until the drinking finally and permanently ended our trips, I would beg my father to take me to the Hobby Airport where I would sit on one of our old car’s front powder puff fenders and dream of someday piloting one of those beautifully graceful flying machines. I would especially love to see TWA’s red and white Super Connie aircraft, twin tails gleaming in the sun, taxi to the end of the runway and rev up its four powerful piston engines to full take-off power. The resulting turbulent prop wash would wildly whip the tall grass between the end of the runway and the airport boundary fence, causing instant chaos and general panic among the large, and heretofore unseen, resident jackrabbit population hiding deep in their burrows. I would giggle with glee as I watched them leap here and there, scattering wildly in every direction trying to escape the ear-splitting noise coming from the plane’s four engines, and the powerful blast of blustery air generated by the Connie’s large silver propellers. My dad would hang on to his hat and hug me tight—both of us laughing as we watched the graceful giant slowly start its take-off roll, and finally lift off majestically into the sky.
One day, after a particularly long interval between take offs and landings, I noticed a large white oddly shaped building halfway down, and to the right, of the runway. “Dad!” I called while pointing straight ahead. “What’s that white funny looking building over there? It looks like an ice cream cone but I can see people inside the top part where the green glass is.”
“Oh, that? That’s the airport tower.”
“What’s it for?” I wondered out loud.
“Well,” he explained. “The people that work inside talk to the airplanes and tell the pilots when they can take off or when they can land.”
“Wow!” I exclaimed. I was absolutely amazed. “Daddy, I think the job those men do has to be more important than the pilots flying the airplanes, don’t you think? Gee, they must be really smart to be able to do that.”
“Well,” He said, rubbing his chin. “I’m sure they have to have a lot of training to be allowed to make those kind of decisions, I guess. You know, a pilot is responsible for his airplane and all of his passengers, but those guys in the tower are responsible for all of the airplanes in and around the airport.”
“Even when they’re in the air?” I asked breathlessly.
“Yes, I think so, but I’m not sure. I know they talk to the planes on special radios.”
“Wow!” I exclaimed, my eyes now glued on the tiny figures moving around behind the green windows. “I think when I grow up that’s what I’d like to do! Do you think you can send me to that kind of school when I grow up, daddy?”
He chuckled deeply and gave me a noogie. “Well, let’s get you through high school first and then we can see if you still want to do that.”
“Oh, I know I will. I just know it.”
“Well, mijo we’ll see.” And then he picked me up and set me down on his lap as he slid up and took my place on the fender. I rested my chin on his arm and held on tightly as he hugged me snugly and securely. I stared at that building for a long time trying to see if I could make out what exactly the men inside were doing. Finally, my dad said, “Mira mijito, here comes one from behind us ready to land.”
I was so very excited and couldn’t wait to get home to tell Jerry all about the airport tower that I had seen, and the smart people that talked to airplanes. I didn’t think I’d tell mom because she’d just say I was being silly. She usually said that when she didn’t understand something I was trying to explain.
It was many years later, and long after I earned my pilot’s license, and been hired by the Federal Aviation Administration as an air traffic controller, that the memory of that long lost day was finally recalled. Now, in retrospect, I realize that that occasion was probably my closest and warmest dad and son experience. There were so very few.
Of course there were other good times too—especially when he was still coming home on Fridays. That’s when he’d ask me if I’d like to go fishing with him early the next day. “Sure!” I would always say, knowing that he’d be waking me up very early on Saturday—somewhere between two and three o’clock—so that we’d get to the free pier on Galveston Island before anyone else. “That way”, he’d explain, “we’ll get the ‘best’ spot…” ensuring our success in landing a record haul fish.
Sadly, and more often than not, we’d end up with just a few pitiful looking catfish (he called them “hard-heads”) or a couple of sunfish, or perch that we’d end up throwing away before we’d leave for the long drive home. Worse, the entire day was spent baiting, casting, and mostly reeling in a wet and empty hook. There was very little conversation between us, except maybe for a few repetitive words or phrases such as: “Almost had him…” “Watch your head, I’m casting out…” “I’m moving over there…” “Not hitting very well today…”
The long day would end with me dozing off in the back seat on the way home, my hands stinking of shrimp and squid (bait), and gently rubbing my red itchy sunburned shoulders. Sometimes, but not very often, we’d make a stop at “Prince’s Drive Inn” on Old Galveston Road, and order up some deep fried jumbo shrimp and fries, and a vanilla malt. I’d always feel odd eating what I’d been sticking on hooks all day long.
Bill’s Joint
By far, the strangest experience that I ever had with my dad occurred when I was about seven or eight, and it didn’t have anything to do with fishing or airplanes.
I was outside playing in my favorite cool spot under the house, when I heard my mother yelling for me to come in the house. Thinking that I had probably done something wrong I took my time crawling out, slowly walking up the back stairs and easing quietly through the screen door. As I padded through the kitchen in my bare feet I saw my dad standing near the front door with my mother holding on to his left arm. They were arguing.
Trying to tug away from her grip he was saying, “¡Te digo, vieja, que voy a volver en unos cuantos minutos!” (I’m telling you, old lady, I’ll be back in a few minutes.) “I’m just going to go around the corner, for God’s sake!”
Agitated, she looked directly at him and said, “No Bob! Whenever you say that I don’t see you for two or three days! You are not doing this to me today! If you really are just running an errand “around the corner” you won’t mind taking Frankie with you, now will you?”
“NO! I will not take him with me!” He yelled back at her. “I won’t, goddammit!”
“I swear to God Bob, if you don’t take him with you, then when you finally decide to come home you’ll find us gone, and you’ll never see us again!”
Hearing this surprised and scared me at the same time. First, I hadn’t heard my mother ever use this tone of voice ever, half crying and half screaming; but more than that, it didn’t sound like a threat—more like a promise. The thought of leaving home and never seeing my dad again suddenly made me profoundly sad.
“God dammit vieja, where in the hell would you go anyway?” He asked angrily, still trying to pull away.
Now crying full force, “Bueno, you just go, desgraciado! (damned you.) But when you get home you’ll see! I’ll…we’ll be gone and you’ll never find us! Never!! I’ll find a way to get as far as I possibly can from you—and me and Frankie will never be seen again!”
Now I really started to worry. She didn’t sound like she was kidding!
“Shit!” He spat. Looking out toward the car with a wistful look then turning back toward her he said, “Fine, Godammit! But, don’t think I’m taking him because your stupid threat scared me! I’m doing it to stop you from screaming your ass off for all the fucking neighbors to hear!”
Ripping his arm away from her he yelled over her head, “¡Pancho! ¡Vente, vamonos!” (Come on, let’s go!)
I tentatively moved towards the door and my mother gently pushed me in the direction of the porch. “Ándale mijo, vete.” (Go ahead son, go.)
Glaring at my dad, and between clenched teeth, she hissed, “Listen you! If anything happens to him, I swear to almighty God that I will do my best to kill you, if it’s the last thing I ever do!” For maximum effect, she shook her left fist at him.
Hearing that, I started to think that maybe the safest choice for me was to stay just where I was. But as I began to open my mouth to voice my opinion, my dad said, “¡Vieja estupida! Where do you think I’m going to take him? He’s my son too, pendeja, (idiot (but much worse)), and I know how to take care of him, for Christ’s sake you idiot! And, you better stop threatening me, vieja loca!”
Reaching for my arm he abruptly yanked me away from my mother’s side, and before I knew what was happening I was being dragged down the stairs and out to the car.
“Just mark my words, Bob—JUST MARK MY WORDS!” She yelled at the top of her lungs as she stood on the porch, arms folded and head cocked sideways with a look on her face that really scared me.
Pushing me into the front seat, my dad slid in and started the car while his left leg was still hanging out over the running board. “God, your mother is so full of shit! You know what I mean?” I wasn’t so sure I knew what he meant, but I kept quiet and just shrugged. The old Dodge shook as the engine caught. He slammed the floor shifter into reverse and did a 180 degree backwards turn in the front yard.
The momentum of the car sort of rolled me over the seat and I ended up with my knees on the floorboard facing the back of the front seat.
“God damn stupid ass woman!” He whispered loudly to himself, jamming the shifter into first gear while popping the clutch and spinning the steering wheel.
I flew up onto the seat and grabbed the arm rest on the door.
Daring a quick at him I saw his raw anger. Thinking I might want to get on his good side I asked, “Dad, can I shift the gears?” He would let me do that sometimes when he was in a really good mood. This may have not been a good time to ask.
“Just stay over here and be fuc…, be quiet until we’re far away from that maniac.”
Bumping out onto House Street I hung on to the armrest to keep from sliding back onto the floor. Looking up at my dad I saw that instead of looking out the windshield his eyes were glued to the rearview mirror.
Making a left turn onto Liberty Road we headed toward Lockwood Boulevard. “Dad? Where we going?”
“Around the corner.”
Well, by my count we’d already done that a couple of times. “No, really—where we going?”
“You know, you ask too many questions, dammit boy!”
“Oh, OK. Can I shift the gears now?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, but not just now. Lemme get out of this traffic and get to the light”
“Daddy! I know that! We have to stop, and then get ready to go, for the gears to be shifted. So, where we going?”
“Lockwood, Navigation, Telephone Road, and then McCarthy Road. Now, do you know where any of those streets are?” Suddenly he sounded playful and his face looked a bit more relaxed.
“We’re on Lockwood now!” I said, as I kneeled on the front seat so I could look out the windshield. “And, I know there’s a stop light soon; so when we get there I’ll get to shift the gears. Right?”
“We’ll see.”
Stopping at the light he looked over to me. “Alright boy, let’s see what’cha got.”
I slid over and grabbed the floor shifter with both hands trying to remember each gear’s position on the “H” pattern that my dad had taught me.
A few stop lights later, and a few pounds of ground out gears (his clutch work and my gear shifting were a little out of sync), and we cruised out onto McCarthy Road.
From what I remember, this street was pretty much on the outskirts of town on the southeast side of Houston, and was mostly populated with gas stations, trucker restaurants, motels, and—oh yes—a bunch of brightly lit bars and clubs.
The brilliant array of red, blue, green and white flashing neon signs were dazzling. The “Dew Drop Inn”, “Mac’s Drive-In Lounge”, “Tina’s Club” (Ladies Always Welcome), “Butch & Bob’s” (Best Burgers N’Beer N’Town), was like eye candy to my young eyes. Soon I had forgotten all about the gearshift and had moved over to the passenger side and cranked the window open to try to read as many of the signs as I could. The cool evening air felt great and I opened my mouth wide to see if the wind would inflate my cheeks.
“Get your head back in the car, Frank! Jesus!”
I pulled my head back in but kept my right hand out flying it up and down while making nasally airplane noises.
“Hey daddy! Oh, look! There’re so many nice stores here. They’re so lit up!”
“Well,” He chuckled. “I don’t know how nice those…uh, stores are Pancho. Know what I mean?”
No, I didn’t. “Uh-huh.”
Slowing down we made a left turn across traffic and pulled into a small gravel lot where a small white wooden frame building sat. There were a few cars pulled up to the front of the structure, and my dad picked a place between two cars almost facing the front door.
“BILLS JOINT.” This, written in large black block letters on a swinging white metal sign, hanging on a rusty metal rod over the door and guarded on either side by two small flood lights. No neon here, and I was a little disappointed that he’d picked this dull place over all the other better ones.
There were two little windows on either side of two large screen doors, hung slightly askew, protecting matching solid white wooden doors. Three slightly off-center concrete steps led from the white dirt lot up to the doors. Right away I didn’t like the place because it looked old, cheap, and plain.
“What’re we doing here, daddy?”
“Well, I gotta go see a man about a fire. Get it?”
“No.”
“Jesus. OK, I’m going in to talk to someone, and I won’t be long. So you’re gonna wait here—play with the gear shift if you want—then when I come out we’ll go home. You want me to bring you out a Coke?”
The Coke comment came out just as I was getting ready to protest.
“Really? A Coke? Sure! Can I go in and get it with you?”
“No Pancho, this is no place for little boys. You wait here and I’ll be out with the Coke in a little bit.”
“Daddy?”
“What?”
“Are you bringing me a bottle of Coke?”
“Of course! Why?”
“Well,” I put on my ‘matter of fact’ voice and crossed my arms, business-like. “If it’s in a bottle then I’ll have to drink it here while you wait, because if you don’t return the bottle right away you won’t get back the nickel deposit.”
“Jesus Christ! You’re just like your mother! Mira Pancho, I’m buying you a Coke—AND I’ll pay the deposit so you can drink it on the way home. Capice?”
“Well then, that’s really good. Because then tomorrow I can take the empty bottle to Henry’s store and he’ll pay me back a nickel for the deposit! Then I’ll have a nickel to spend there! Oh, unless you want it back because you paid, uh…Bill (as I looked at the sign) a nickel.”
“OK, Frankie. I’m done with the talking. Now I’m going in and you’re staying here until I come out. OK?”
“Sure. Uh, Daddy?”
“What, for Christ sake?” He turned as he was getting out.
“Please don’t forget to bring me my Coke.”
“Jesus!”
He closed the door a little harder than usual and walked around the front of the car heading for the concrete stairs. Swinging open the screen doors he pushed open one of the large wooden doors and started in. Just before disappearing into the darkness of “Bill’s Joint”, he quickly turned and pointed his finger at me. (Stay there!)
Spinning away from me he pulled the door closed behind him, and just before it completely closed I heard: “Jambalaya, Crawfish Pie-a, Me-oh-my-o, for tonight I’m……”
The time ticked by slowly as I sat in the hot car and entertained myself, first with the floor shifter, then by spinning the dial on the non-working radio on the dash, and acting out dramatic mini-scenes when the dial landed on certain frequencies: (In my professional radio announcer voice) “Now the news! Frankie won the most famous car race ever by shifting gears faster than anyone else–EVER!”—“In sports, Frankie’s team beat everyone in the world by hitting one hundred homeruns in their game against the very much hated New York Yankees!”—“Today the FBI arrested a big villain with the help of Special Agent Frankie, who after popping him in the nose, held him down, with the help of his best friend Jerry, until the local cops showed up!”—And on, and on.
Yeah, OK. I was a little light on reality, but I did have a great imagination.
My mind games were abruptly interrupted when a big black car pulled off of McCarthy and slowly rolled up and parked next to ours. Leaving the radio I turned my attention to the driver, who after shutting off the engine, just sat there for a while, staring straight ahead at the white building with the slowly swinging white metal sign. With my knees on the seat and chin resting on the open window of our car I wondered why the man was just sitting there, doing nothing.
He looked big, bigger than my father, broad shoulders and a large round face, and he was wearing a gray felt hat pulled partially down over his eyes. Sweat was running down the side of his face, and every once in a while he’d wipe his brows with a large pudgy hand. His stare never wavered.
Finally he pushed open the door and stepped out. Looking at me for the first time, our eyes met, and with my chin resting on the open car window, I smiled, wiggling the fingers on my right hand, saying hello.
He paused momentarily, eyes still locked on mine; then, without a word he slammed the car door and quickly looked away. Pulling his hat down further over his eyes he walked briskly to the back of his car. Once there, he looked slowly around, then bent down and opened the trunk.
Straining my neck, and hanging my arm out, I tried to see what he was doing. No luck. I could barely see his rump swaying slightly as he appeared to be struggling with something heavy at first, and then straightening up while stuffing something into his pants pockets.
When he pulled back and reached up to slam the trunk lid with his right hand I could see that hanging off his left arm was a long black rifle. Walking between our car and his I saw that his pockets were bulging and noticed that his hat was gone. He slowed, turning and glancing at me curiously, then deliberately walked towards the bar—holding the long black gun low and level with the ground.
He took the first step up to the screen door, stopped and rotated the weapon up into a vertical position. Opening the screen door with his right hand he kicked the wooden door open and rushed in to the blackness of the bar.
I heard: “…cheating heart, will tell on you…I cried and cried, the whole night through…” “BOOM, BOOM!!” My ears rung and my mind stopped.
“…HOLY SHI…”, a scream from inside the bar…“BOOM, BOOM!!” These louder, and closer together.
I dropped to the floor of the car, but not knowing exactly why I did. “CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, CRACK!!!” Then…nothing but silence for what seemed like a very long time. I don’t recall breathing.
A rush of cool air flooded into the car and I looked up as my dad flew in and pushed the button that started the car. With his door still open and throwing the floor shifter into reverse he yelled, “STAY DOWN FRANKIE, STAY DOWN!!!”
The engine caught and I was thrown forward onto the front of the floorboard and under the dash as I felt the car violently sliding backward—the engine screaming. Shifting, steering wheel spinning wildly, the car lurched forward and I was again thrown, this time onto the bottom of the front seat.
“GODAMMIT, GODAMMIT, GODAMMIT!” My father shouted in a voice that I’d never heard before.
“Daddy?”
“SHUT UP, GODAMMIT! STAY DOWN!! SHUT UP!! SHUT UP!!”
I wanted to cry. I wanted to pee. I was scared. I wondered where my Coke was.
Bouncing savagely, the car’s back wheels spinning, I smelled burnt oil and rubber.
Starting to get a little dizzy, I whispered loudly, “Daddy, can I get up on the seat now? Please?” I chanced a look up to my father. Mouth open, eyes darting wildly from the windshield to the rearview mirror, he said, “NO! Dammit, hold on, I’ll tell you when to get up!”
“OK.” I closed my eyes, and I felt a warm bitter taste of bile at the back of my tongue. Curled up on the hot rubber floorboard under the glove compartment I tried not to breathe in the acrid smell of grease and hot oil seeping in through the firewall. The inside of my head spun crazily and I thought I would surely have to throw up soon.
After an eternity of lying on the floor holding back the bubble of vomit wanting to explode from deep in my throat, I heard my father say, “OK Pancho, you can get up on the seat now.” Grabbing for the frayed arm rest on the passenger side door I drunkenly pulled myself up onto the worn felt seat. A cool rivulet of sweat ran down my neck, soaking into the collar of my shirt as I pushed my back into the seat. I slowly turned to look at my dad.
His driving had settled back down to normal and I saw that we were in a part of town I didn’t recognize. “Daddy,” I was finally able to say without fear of gagging, “where are we? What happened? Are we going home now?”
“Settle down boy. We’re on our way home now.”
“What happened? I heard some really loud noises coming from the building. What were those?”
“Nothing, they were nothing. Now stop asking questions.”
“OK.” I wanted to ask a lot more questions, but I sort of knew there would be no answers.
“Listen!” He suddenly blurted out. “When we get home don’t tell your mother anything—you hear me? NOTHING!!” His eyes were squeezed down to sharp slits as he glared at me, and I noted how terribly pale his face was.
“OK. But can I at least tell her about the loud booms I heard?”
“NO!! Godammit!! What did I just say?”
“Don’t tell her nothing?”
“NOTHING!”
“OK.” My stomach was still queasy. “Daddy, can I get a Coke?”
A long pause, then he finally said, “OK, we’ll stop at a drug store before we get home and I’ll get you a Coke, and maybe some peanuts. Would you like that?”
“Sure. But I’d rather have Cracker Jacks; they have prizes in the box. Oh, and can we go to Mobley’s for them?”
“Fine, Cracker Jacks! Just remember not to say anything to your Mom.”
“I’ll remember. But what will I say if she asks what we did?”
He wrinkled his brow and scratched his head; then he looked down at the floor then craned his neck to look at the back seat. “Shit. Where’s my hat?”
“I don’t know.” I responded, not really concerned about his hat. “Huh, Daddy? What if she asks?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Just tell her we went around the corner and stopped at the airport for a while. Then we went somewhere and we ended up getting you got a Coke and Cracker Jacks.” “Capice?”
“OK. Mobley’s…that’s where we’re going now, right?”
“Yeah, Mobley’s.”
The drive home after a stop at Mobley’s Drugstore for my treats was strangely and uncomfortably quiet. Even the old car’s rattily engine sounded subdued.
We pulled into our front yard and I opened my door. Tightly holding my booty I ran in the front door of the house anxious to show my mom what I’d gotten. My dad stayed behind, lifting the hood and inspecting the Dodge’s tortured engine. Walking to the back of the house I found my mom sitting in the kitchen with her head in her hands.
“Hi mom!” I greeted her while inspecting my Cracker Jacks prize—a secret decoder ring.
“Oh, hi mijito.” She said, a little sadness in her voice. “What did you and your daddy do? You were gone so long.” She sniffled and rubbed her nose with a tattered dish towel and reached out to pull me to her.
“Nothing. Dad took me to Bill’s Joint on McCarthy Road, and I waited in the car until he ran out. Then we went to Mobley’s for this.” I held out the box and continued munching on a handful of Cracker Jacks.
“Bills what? WHAT? BILL’S JOINT?!” Her eyes bulged and she leaped out of her chair. “BOB!!” She lurched out of her chair and literally flew out of the kitchen. I heard the screen door bang open and heard her saying some really angry and loud words. I couldn’t make them out, but really didn’t care too much since they weren’t directed at me.
Admiring how cool the purple plastic decoder ring looked on my hand I wondered briefly what had upset her so much. Heck, I thought, I hadn’t even had a chance to tell her about the loud booms and about how fast daddy came running out of the place afterwards. Oh, and his hat! I should tell her that he lost his hat. I’ll tell her that when she comes back in. Tipping my head back and letting the last few kernels of sweet popcorn and peanuts roll into my mouth I thought, But I’ll just wait for her to cool off a little before I tell her anything else.
Enlightenment
In November of 1962, I was home on leave, having driven from my Air Force assignment in Winnemucca, Nevada. It was a typical Houston winter day, mid 40’s with a stiff wind out of the north and a light chilly drizzle that swirled about coating and soaking everything with its shiny wetness. Before leaving Nevada I had bought a decades old Chevrolet Bel-Air for the long trip back to Houston, and within thirty miles from reaching home, and late at night, the engine had died due to a clogged fuel pump. A passing tow truck driver took pity on me and towed the car free of charge, dropping me off at my parents’ house well after midnight.
The next day I was up early and asked my mother if I could borrow their car to go to find an auto supply store to purchase a new fuel pump. Returning later in the morning I found both my folks at home and sitting at the kitchen table. By then my dad had been retired from Younger Brothers for a few years, and was now heavily involved in the Pentecostal Church, mostly as a traveling lay minister. They had moved from the old house on House Street, (now renamed Kashmere Street), and were living in a small rental that the church leadership had provided in exchange for his ministry. It was old, and not much larger than the old house, but it was conveniently close to the church where he preached regularly.
Having a cup of coffee and reading the paper, my father asked, “So, did you find the fuel pump at the parts house OK?”
“Yeah, now I just need to find the energy to get off my butt and brave this crap weather to change it out. You know, I just don’t understand. I’m stationed in Nevada, and the temperature there can be twenty degrees, and I still find it possible to work outside in shirtsleeves. Here it’s forty degrees and I start shivering within five minutes of going outside.”
“Es la humedad, mijo.” (It’s the humidity.) He said turning to the sports page. “You’re just not used to it anymore. Here, sit down and let me finish my coffee, then we’ll go out together and get that thing changed out in no time.”
“OK, thanks.” I sat down at the table.
“Oh,” he quickly said. “How much was the fuel pump?”
“Twelve dollars and some change, why?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. “Here, some gas money for when the car’s fixed. You still gotta drive it back, right?”
“Dad. I don’t need any money. I drew an advance on my check before I left so I should have enough to last me for the trip back.”
“Nonsense!” He said. “Take this, put it in your pocket and use it for traveling money back. You never know what can go wrong.”
Then my mother chimed in. “Si mijo, take the money. We don’t spend too much nowadays.”
“No!” I insisted. “You both need the money more than I do. I’m not going to take it.”
Putting the bill back into his pocket, he said with a little disappointment in his voice, “Suit yourself.”
“You want some coffee, mijo?” My mother asked, as she cleaned around the small gas stove.
“No thanks Mom. I know what real coffee tastes like now. I really can’t believe you still just boil the grounds in a pan.”
“Oh, mister delicate!” She chided. “Your dad’s been drinking it like that all his life and he’s still alive.”
“Yeah, I know” I said. “And I still don’t know how he doesn’t choke on the grounds.”
Sucking down the last of his coffee and smacking his lips as he put the cup down. “You just gotta know what you’re doing. Your mom’s coffee is not for amateurs.” He smiled and wiggled his eyebrows, Groucho style.
I threw on a coat and we went out into the light drizzle. After a few minutes of tinkering with the fuel hose and loosening the retaining bolts I said, “Dad, can I ask you something about something that happened when I was a kid?”
Peering into the dark engine housing through his worn and slightly bent turtle shell glasses he said, “Sure, and I’ll answer truthfully as long as the statute of limitations on the subject has expired.” Looking over the top of the scratched up lenses he winked.
“Well, I don’t know, maybe not.” I said cautiously.
“Shoot then.” He quipped.
“OK, when I was little—I don’t know, maybe seven or eight…before my brother was born, for sure…one day you took me with you to some bar over on McCarthy Road because mom made you take me. Remember?”
“Sure I remember. I’m old, not senile. That, good buddy, would be your mom.”
“Seriously, dad.”
“OK, yeah, I remember. Bill’s Joint.” He added, as he pushed up his glasses. And you spilled the beans when we got home.”
“Right!” I looked up to see him shaking his head. “Yeah, sorry about that, but I remember you went in and were there for a while—then some guy pulled up in a car next to ours and took a rifle out of his trunk.”
He pushed himself out from under the hood and took off his glasses. “Shotgun. It was a shotgun. You saw it, huh?”
“Yup. I remember thinking how big and black that thing looked as he walked between the cars then went into the bar.”
“Hmm, I guess I should’ve asked you if you saw anything when I came out.”
“Well, as I recall, you were in a bit of a hurry. Anyway, as he was going in the door I heard the jukebox playing what I now know was a Hank Williams song, and then I heard a lot of loud booms. I assume now that he shot up the place. Right?”
He looked around as if there may be someone hiding in the bushes with a recording device. “OK look, I caught hell from your mom that day because you told her where I took you. But if she’d ever found out what really happened that day in that bar she would’ve left me for sure.”
“Yeah, I remember she was really pissed anyway. Okay, so what happened? I assume it wasn’t good.”
“OK, but you have to promise me, man to man, that you’ll never breathe a word of this as long as I’m still alive.”
“Dad,” I reached over to pat him on the shoulder, “I know a lot of stuff that I saw when I was growing up that I’ve never told anyone. So I’m not about to start now.”
“Hmmm,” he mused. “We’ll have to discuss that subject at length one of these days. But anyway, I went in to Bill’s to have a beer, but mainly I was there to try to collect on a gambling debt that Bill—that’s the owner—owed me. He was behind the bar when I walked in.”
He paused to clean his glasses on his shirttail and held them out to make sure they were clean. “When I sat down on a stool,” he continued, “I noticed there were two other guys sitting a couple of bar stools away on either side of me, nursing their beers. Call it a sixth sense, but as soon as I took my seat and looked around I got a case of the heebie-jeebies—you know?” He perched his glasses back on his nose and rested his right foot up on the front bumper. Crossing his arms over his knee, he leaned forward and focused his eyes somewhere very far away.
“I don’t think you remember, but the place was tiny; really just a rectangular wood frame building, the long side running left to right. I think had been someone’s house a long time before.”
He paused, his face passive and his eyes narrowing and searching for that long forgotten visual memory. “Anyway, Bill had gutted the place and built the bar so that when you sat on the stools your back was to the double doors, and the little windows that were on either side. You know that I have never liked to sit anywhere with my back to the door.” He shook his head negatively and rubbed his neck, slowly. “But, there I was.”
He shot a nervous glance toward the house, and then continued. “So Bill and I were chatting about how he was on a bad luck run, losing a couple of hundred dollars in just over a week when the door behind me suddenly opened.” He started to get really nervous now; taking off his glasses again and cleaning them on his shirt-tail, and putting them back on repeatedly.
He continued, “Bill glanced up and I looked over my right shoulder. All I saw was the shotgun that this guy was bringing it up to his shoulder.”
“Shit.” I said without thinking.
“Now if you were to ask me what this guy looked like, I could never tell you. I never saw his face. But I could sure tell you volumes about that gun.”
“He didn’t point it at you, did he?” I asked.
“Ha, I didn’t wait long enough to find out. Without even thinking, and with all my strength I grabbed the backside of the bar and pulled myself up and dove head first over the bar…right into Bill’s stomach. I guess he must’ve be frozen because apparently he hadn’t moved an inch. I hit him square in the gut, wrapped both my arms around him, and we both went down like sacks of potatoes onto the floor behind the bar. He rolled over on top of me and that’s when I felt—didn’t really hear—the first two volleys. I remember looking up and seeing a sheet of red spray raining down, mostly on Bill.
“God Dad, the guy shooting never said anything?” I asked.
“I don’t think so, but I couldn’t hear so good then because the first volley blew my hearing out a bit. I started crawling away from where I thought the guy was when I noticed that Bill was crawling the other way. Then I heard the next two shots. In my mind I remember thinking how funny they sounded: like loud metallic clangs—not booms at all. I guess it was because we were inside a building and not outside where the sound could quickly dissipate.”
“Was the guy shooting at Bill?”
“That’s what I thought, but apparently having taken out the first guy, he’d quickly jammed two more cartridges and leveled on the second guy at the bar. That guy was probably scared shitless, oh, sorry; anyway, he didn’t think to jump or run. He just sat there, frozen.”
“Christ!” I’d forgotten how unpleasant the cold drizzle was.
“By then,” he continued, “I was crab crawling as fast as I could to try to get behind a beer cooler near what should’ve been a back door. Well, there was a door but it was blocked with four beer kegs, stacked two by two.
“So,” he continued. “Making myself as small as possible I squeezed down between the kegs and the cooler and finally took a chance to peek out to see where the shooter was. That’s when I saw Bill at the far end of the bar starting to stand up with a pistol in his hand. He must’ve had it stashed somewhere behind the bar and waited ‘till the guy blew off the second two rounds. Almost dreamlike, I saw flame come out of the barrel and saw the recoil. I don’t recall hearing the gun go off.”
“Did he hit the guy?”
“Put four rounds square in his face while he was trying to reload. I felt the floor vibrate under me when the guy hit the floor.”
“Did Bill tell you to get out at that point?”
“Well, if he did I couldn’t hear him anyway. No, I scooted around the end of the bar and tried to look out to find the shooter. Then I saw him. He was on the floor, on his back with one leg under him, still holding the shotgun in one hand. Half his forehead was split open and one of his eyeballs was hanging down by his cheek. A geyser of blood was slowly pumping out of where his forehead used to be, and he was twitching a bit.
“I couldn’t believe the bastard was still holding the shotgun, broken open, and there were two live cartridges rolling on the floor. He was planning to jam those into the breach and keep shooting. Jesus, smoke was still curling out of the damn barrels. That’s when I got up on all fours and baby crawled as fast as I could to the door.”
“What about the two other guys? Where were they?”
“Don’t know, and at that time I didn’t care. I got up and ran through the doors as fast as I could. Took the screens right off their hinges as I went out, and got into the car as fast as I could. I just wanted out of there.”
“Do you remember what you told me when you got into the car?” I asked, curious.
“You know, I don’t remember very much until we got to Mobley’s Drug Store. I don’t know why we were there, to tell you the truth. But I remember you wanted some popcorn or something.”
“Cracker Jacks.”
“What?”
“I wanted Cracker Jacks…and a Coke, so I asked you to take me to Mobley’s Drug store.”
“OK.” He was sweating a little bit now, or maybe it was just the drizzle.
“Jesus Dad, did the cops ever call to question you?”
“Bill never admitted to anyone else being in the bar. For sure, aside from Bill, there were no witnesses left. The crap part was that he never paid me my money, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to go back and ask him for it either.”
“Did Bill get in trouble with the law?”
“No, he was no-billed by the Grand Jury a couple of months later and the case was closed. It was a clear case of self-defense.”
“What about the shooter? Why did he go in like that?” That was the question that I really wanted to have an answer to.
“Well, I really never found out for sure, but the talk around town was that one of the guys he gunned down had been messing with his wife. I found out later that he’d killed her first at their house before he drove out to the bar. Guess he knew where his wife’s boyfriend did his drinking. Then after having done him, I guess he decided he couldn’t leave any witnesses.”
“Holy crap!” I exclaimed. “This sounds like a movie.”
“Well, I thought that maybe I should stay close to home a bit more after that, but that didn’t last too long. I went back to drinking a couple of weeks later.”
“Have you seen Bill since then?”
“No, about a year after the shooting he sold the bar and we lost touch. Then I heard he died of cancer a couple of years later. He was only forty-eight.”
“Well, that was a hell of an experience.” I said, quite amazed.
He ran his hand through his thinning hair, took a deep breath, and said, “Yeah, so just remember, don’t ever sit anywhere with your back to the door.
“Hey, this fuel pump ain’t getting fixed by itself!” Rubbing his hands together vigorously he said, “Let’s finish up, I’m getting cold.”
Funny, I had forgotten all about the weather.
Call me crazy, or call me superstitious; but to this day I never sit with my back to any door, anywhere. Not if I can help it. Ask anyone.
***
There are two major things that make these previous recollections so extraordinary. One, is that before I left home for the Air Force, my dad and I never had much of a speaking relationship. Early on, most of the time he was either off working, out with his buddies drinking, and later on fraternizing with the church brothers and other reverends. Whenever he was at home I remember him mostly sitting at the table drinking coffee (or buttermilk if he was nursing a hangover) and reading a newspaper. Our usual communication would pretty much go like this:
Me: “Hey dad, what’cha doing?”
Him: “Reading the paper, why?” (Eyes still glued to the paper)
Me: “Oh, nothing. What’cha gonna do today?”
Him: “I don’t know. Go bother your mother, or go outside and play.”
And off I’d go.
Even right up to the day before I left for the Air Force in 1960, and after asking my mom to leave the room, he asked me to sit with him because he said he needed to tell me something very important.
“You know,” he started, tentatively, “you’ll be meeting women now that you’re going off on your own.”
“Yeah.”
“So, you’ll have to be careful…you know.”
“About what?”
“Women!” He started to tense up and I noticed a small tic working his upper lip.
“What about them will I have to be careful of?” I asked curiously.
“You know.”
“No…I don’t.”
“Some of them are dirty.” He quickly spit out.
“Uh, dirty, like what? Like some of them don’t take baths?”
“No Pancho! You know…down there.” He nodded his head slightly downward.
I looked at the floor, then looked up at him. “Their feet?”
“Look Frank,” he said, a bit exasperated. “Some women carry sicknesses down there between their legs…so you have to be careful—that’s all.”
“What kind of sicknesses?” This was starting to be fun.
“Clap!” He blurted out. “And…and…bugs, like fleas, but worse.”
He was getting real pale now and was doing his best to avert my gaze.
“Crap?” I asked.
“Jesus.” He mumbled, staring at the floor.
“Look dad,” I finally said. “Gonorrhea, syphilis, and crabs. Does that about cover it?”
He slowly looked up at me and stared for a bit; nervously pursing and licking his lips, finally saying, “OK, so I want you to be careful and go out with women that are clean—OK?”
“Sure dad. I’ll be sure to check them out before I take them out. We done?”
“Yup!” This as he was anxiously getting up from the chair and escaping out the back door presumably to go tinker with the car.
The second extraordinary thing was his offering me money. In all my life, previous to my leaving home that is, my father had never, ever, offered me, or my mother, any money—for anything! No money on birthdays, none (of course) for my high school graduation, and certainly none for any kind of allowance. Even when he was making good money prior to going to work for Younger Brothers, he’d stop by the house on payday (usually Friday) and give my mother a twenty dollar bill. “This is for groceries.” He’d say, as he was walking back out the door and to his car not to be seen again until maybe Sunday. By then he was broke.
A Discovery and the Brothers
The Sunday night service we attended that evening didn’t end until well after ten o’clock. My brother had fallen asleep halfway into the service and when the final hymn and dismissal prayer had concluded he lay sprawled face down on the pew, mouth open, a small puddle of spittle slowing pooling where the back rest and seat met.
As I got up, slowly flexing my stiff back muscles and lightly stamping the prickly pins out of my numb right foot, I saw that Reverend Villa had left the stage and was making his way towards us—glad handing and smiling broadly at some of the members who had migrated up to the pulpit area. He raised his left hand in our direction while seemingly ignoring Sister Sánchez as she hurried up to him, her pudgy little hand extended—probably hoping for a warm handshake and a willing ear. Brushing quickly past her and still waving his arm and hand directly at my dad he yelled, “¡Señor De León! Un momento por favor.” He slowed his pace as he caught my dad’s eye.
Acknowledging the reverend’s calls my dad looked over to my mom. “Evelyn, get Ricky up and wait for me outside. The reverend wants to talk to me.” He then moved down the pew toward the right side exit next to the wall.
Before my mom could respond, Mrs. Villa, who had been chatting with a couple of sisters on the pew in front of us, turned and said, “Señora De León, I’ll help you with the boy. Just let me come around.”
“Pancho, ayúdame con tu hermano.” (…help me with your brother) Mom asked as she tried to pick him up off the pew. Mrs. Villa made it around the pew and grabbed my brother’s legs as my mom wrestled with his head and upper body.
“¡Aye, que pesado es este niño!” (…this kid is heavy!) Mrs. Villa exclaimed.
“Sí, ya se.” (Yes, I know.) My mom responded. “Es muy comelón.” (He’s quite the eater.)
Together, they managed to push my brother’s chubby limp body up to where my mom could cradle his bottom with one arm while his head lolled over her shoulder. As she made her way to the side exit door I saw that my brother, mouth open and head bouncing with my mom’s every step, had resumed his spittle production and a bit of it was running down the back of her dress.
Following at a safe distance I paused just before I got to the door and looked to my left where the musicians were busily packing up their instruments. Joni was standing there, one knee on the piano bench, talking to a guy whom I’d never seen before. He was tall, sported a dark complexion and wore his hair in a greasy Elvis-style pompadour. For just a moment they both stopped talking and shot a glance over in my direction. I thought about waving to her, but then thought better of it since the guy might think it was him that I was waving to. Before I had a chance to finish the thought they both turned away continuing their conversation. Watching for a few more seconds I saw that she was very relaxed and was smiling widely and nodding enthusiastically at whatever he was saying. Feeling a bit dejected I turned away and walked out into the dark parking lot breaking into a little sprint to catch up with my mom and brother.
After Mrs. Villa and my mom shoved Ricky into the back seat of the car, my mother opened the trunk, pulled out an old thin flannel blanket, and covered my brother from head to toe.
“Para los mosquitos”. She quietly explained to no one in particular.
After quietly closing the door and looking in the window to make sure my brother was still sound asleep, my mother asked Mrs. Villa, “¿Bueno, y entonces a donde vamos?” (OK, where to now?)
“Vamos al comedor.” Mrs. Villa instructed. “Allí podemos platicar acerca de la Sociedad de Hermanas en nuestra iglesia.” (Let’s go into the dining room. We can talk there about the Sisterhood in our church.)
I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly when she mentioned a “dining room”. We were outside in the parking lot, and as far as I could remember the Villa house was not anywhere within walking distance.
“¿El comedor?” My mom asked, with a puzzled look on her face.
“Si. Allá está al otro lado de la iglesia.” (Yes, it’s on the other side of the church.) Mrs. Villa said as she began to walk behind the church.
Rounding the back side of the church I saw that there was actually a small square wooden building that was hidden away from the street and parking lot view. It was dimly illuminated by a couple of light bulbs hanging from metal fixtures guarding both sides of a small screen door. Through the brightly lit windows I could see several people inside milling about and talking loudly amid the sharp din of clanging tin spoons and the rattling of cups and saucers.
I followed as the two women climbed the sagging wooden steps, and once inside I was overwhelmed with the pungent aroma of brewing coffee and the sweet smell of warm bread. I recognized a few of the church members I’d seen in church, and couldn’t help but notice the large old man who played the bajo sexto—smooth brown skinned bald head shining brightly—leaning on a small counter where a large commercial sized coffee pot bubbled noisily away. Next to his elbow I spotted a nice variety of pastries that sent my saliva glands into rapid overdrive.
There were probably a dozen, or so, people there, standing around in small groups balancing coffee cups, saucers, and morsels of sweet Mexican pastry, while merrily conversing and laughing raucously. Once Mrs. Villa was spotted, the conversations quickly died away and all eyes turned to acknowledge her presence.
Sporadically, “Buenas noches, hermana”, “Hola Señora Villa”, “Dios la bendiga, Hermana”, rang through the small room.
“¡Hermanos!” Mrs. Villa said—raising her voice slightly to attract the attention of those few who had missed her entrance and had continued their conversations. Clearing her throat, she announced, “Ya conocen a la Señora De León y su hijo, Frankie.” (You all already know Mrs. De León and her son, Frankie), magnanimously delivered with a sweep of her arm. “Y, por favor, continúen con sus refrescos y postres.” (And, please, continue with your refreshments and pastries.)
Turning around she put her arm on my shoulder and said, “Go! If you want some coffee, the cups are over there and the pastries are on the counter. One of our members works in a Mexican panaderia (bakery) and he…well, he brings us what they don’t sell.”
I didn’t need a second invitation so I made a charge towards the sweets. Working my way around the large bass playing brother I grabbed a yummy looking pan de huevo (egg bread: fluffy soft and sweet), and looked to find a cup.
“¿Te llamas Panchito, eh?” (Your name is Frankie, eh?) The bass player asked, rubbing his head.
“Yes. Donde están las copas?” (Where are the cups?)
“Aquí, mijo.” He pointed to a shelf beneath the counter on which the large coffee maker and pastries were sitting.
After pouring myself about a half a cup of coffee and adding plenty of cream to help wash the sweet bread down, I looked around the “comedor” and wondered how I’d never seen it before. Stepping out to escape the stuffiness of the small building, I saw that at night if the lights were off, the building—tucked away in a corner of the lot behind the church—would be almost invisible.
When I had attended daytime services I hadn’t seen it because there was never a need to go exploring behind the church. I would later learn that el comedor was where several of the more senior sisters of the church (the best cooks, no doubt) would spend most of the day preparing and serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner to the members and guests attending church conferences (always scheduled on Saturday); and cooking and serving the membership and guests attending evangelical revivals.
Seeing that my mom was surrounded by several other sisters, seemingly talking to her all at the same time, I decided to step out into the cooler night air. Nursing my coffee I walked slowly back to my car and peeked into the car through the passenger side window to check on Ricky. He was still under the blanket sound asleep.
As I turned around to make my way back to the dining room I was startled to see that Joni’s two brothers were standing quietly, arms crossed, staring directly at my face.
“Oh, hi!” I said, maybe a little too loud.
“Hey.” The bigger and older of the two responded. “What’s your name?”
“Uh, Frankie…Frank.”
“Oh yeah,” the big one said to the smaller one. “…he’s the new kid…De León, right?” Turning back to face me.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Word of advice.” Big boy sneered. “Our sister is not interested in you. So back off, ese.”
“Yeah,” said the little one. “Not at all. She likes Gilbert.”
“¡Cállate pendejo!” (Shut up, stupid!) The big one spit out, glaring at his brother. “He don’t need to know our business, or hers.” The younger one looked down at his shoes.
“I..ah..I’m not interested in your sister—not in that way, I mean.” I lied. “I just thought we could be friends.”
“She doesn’t have friends, ese…not boyfriends. Not like you. Get it?” The big guy whispered loudly, as he took a step closer.
“That’s fine.” I managed to wheeze out. “No problem.”
“So long as you understand.” The smaller one added.
“See,” his brother continued, “she’s never going to end up with some mojado (wetback) who can’t support her and ends up kicking her ass every weekend. Or some loser like some of the pendejos that go to this church.”
Now, this was really going quite a bit further than I had imagined because I had never entertained the thought of dating anyone, much less marrying someone. And now I’m being accused by a couple of red headed bullies of moving in on their sister. I was beginning to get a bit agitated about their attitude; to say nothing of the language the sons of the mighty Reverendo Villa were using.
Stupidity suddenly took over and I heard myself saying, “Look guys, I’m not looking to find a girlfriend or anything like that. I just liked your sister and talked to her because she seemed nice and she plays the piano really well. That’s all. But truly, I don’t need to hear this bullshit from either of you. And, especially you being reverend’s sons. So, let’s just drop this now.”
The world turned very quiet, and got very small—and I felt as if I had suddenly been thrust into a vacuum. Time stopped, and I marveled at my foolhardiness. Where in the hell had all those words just come from?
Just then…
“Oye.” (Listen.) The big one said to the smaller one; his voice reaching my ears like an echo. “He’s Robert’s fucking little friend.”
The world reappeared.
Instead of a right hook to the face or a kick to the groin, the brothers simultaneously put their hands out for a shake. “Tienes cojones, vato.” (You got balls, dude.) Said the big one. “We were just fucking with you, ese.” “¿Verdad?” He affirmed with his brother.
We shook all around.
“Peter!” Said the older brother.
“Eddie!” Said the younger one.
“Frank!” I announced boldly, while shaking their hands.
“Hey, ese! I like this little fucker.” Eddie said, looking up at Peter.
“Yeah.” Peter said, nodding his head and stretching the word out. “But we’re not fucking kidding about Joni.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not interested.” With that I decided that I had skated on thin ice long enough and pushed between them heading back to the dining room. Looking up I saw my mother coming out, accompanied by Mrs. Villa and a couple of other sisters. Looking to my left I spotted my dad stepping out the church’s side door while Reverend Villa held the screen door open. I veered over towards my dad and the reverend.
“Hey boy!” My dad shouted cheerfully. “Ready to go home?”
“Yup.” I answered, wondering why he was in such a good mood.
“Where’s your mom?”
Pointing in the direction of the dining room I said, “Over there. She’s with Mrs. Villa.”
Closing the screen door behind him, Reverend Villa said, “Allá está el comedor, hermano; como le dije.” (The dining room is over there, brother; just as I said.) As he tapped my dad’s shoulder while pointing the small rectangular building out.
“Oh yeah, you know I could sure use some coffee.” My dad said as the reverend came around to my dad’s side. “Then we gotta go…Frank has some homework he needs to finish tonight.”
“No te preocupes, hermano.” (Don’t worry, brother.) The reverend said. Then in a loud voice directed to his wife, “¡Querida! Tráele una copa de papel con un cafecito para que el hermano se lo lleve a la casa.” (Sweetheart! Bring some coffee in a paper cup so brother can take it home.)
Mrs. Villa waved and turned back toward the dining room. My mom, still escorted by the other two sisters, continued to head to our car.
I stopped to see if Peter and Eddie were still standing by our car, but saw that they’d walked away and were now standing behind their new Buick. Well, I thought. I didn’t feel like introducing them to my parents anyway. I don’t particularly like them.
On the trip home I was a bit mystified by the good mood that both my parents were in. My dad was whistling a catchy tune and my mom was trying to hum along with the melody—badly. It took me a while, but shortly before pulling into our yard I realized that they had been intoning one of the cheery little “coritos” that Joni occasionally launched into to keep the congregation’s spirits high.
***
My mother was the first to surrender to the Pentecostal religion. That event occurred after a particularly fiery sermon had been delivered during a Thursday night service by a visiting, and very charismatic, female preacher. The following morning, as I was getting ready for school, I heard her praying in a shaky teary voice, begging God and all His angels to help her by somehow also bringing her husband to Jesus.
Ever since that Sunday night service when they had gone off to speak in private, the Reverend Villa had been working hard on my father. And whenever my father failed to attend any service we could surely count on the little caravan of Villa’s disciples faithfully paying us a home visit the very next day; most of the time led by the man himself. I began to sense a change in my father and his well-known habits. He’d suspended his usual Friday night forays, instead packing us up and dragging us to church. On Saturdays, instead of butter-milking away a dreadful hangover he worked on our car or sat on the porch leafing through a bible that he’d somehow mysteriously acquired. Sundays? Well, you know where we spent most of the day. The magic that Reverend Villa and his minions were working on my dad finally took hold.
One Sunday evening about two months after my mother took the dive, my father, deep in the throes of religious fervor and crying like a baby, was all but carried to the altar by a group of brothers; and within the hour, surrounded by a sweaty and teary-eyed throng of the church’s most devout members, confessed that he’d been a terrible sinner and declared Jesus as his personal savior. On his knees, tears flowing like water down his cheeks and body shaking uncontrollably, he sorrowfully traded in his wayward life for a shiny new calling.
Reverend Villa, seeing his efforts finally rewarded, lifted his sweat drenched head and bellowed to the very heavens: “¡Señor! ¡Te amos entregado la alma de este pecador mundial, y Usted nos ha devuelto un soldado de Jesucristo! ¡Gloria a Dios! Y gracias por el sacrificio que Su Hijo nos ha dado! Le has lavado los pecados con la sangre sagrada de Tu Hijo. ¡Aleluia y aleluia!” (Lord, we have delivered unto You the soul of an earthly sinner, and You have returned to us a soldier for Jesus Christ! Glory to God! And thank You for the sacrifice your Son has given for us! You have washed away his sins with the sacred blood of your Son! )
Sitting uncomfortably on the hard pew with my sleeping brother’s head in my lap, I watched as my mother went down on her knees crying and thanking God for the miracle she was seeing. I was nervous and confused, and as I watched my brother sleep peacefully, I wondered what all of this meant for me—for us.
After having smoked two to three packs a day since he was a teen and drinking the equivalent of two fifths of hard whiskey just about every weekend for years, my father quit everything cold turkey overnight. To my knowledge he never did smoke another cigarette, and it was decades later that I actually saw him drink alcohol—a margarita, while having lunch at a Mexican restaurant in Houston with me and a girlfriend in the early 1990’s.
With both my parents now fully entrenched in the Pentecostal religion, and proselytizing to anyone who would listen (and even those who wouldn’t) about their faith, I truly began to believe that our pitiful and poverty-stricken family life would now take a positive turn and come to be more peaceful, predictable, and most of all, financially stable.
I was sadly mistaken.
Great, how can you remember so many details?
Well, the good Lord blessed me with a great memory; but the amazing thing is that when I sit down and start writing the recollections of my youth just flooding back. Thanks for reading and hope you’re enjoying my posts as much as I’m enjoying writing them.