by Debra Diaz
LA MADRE: The Mother
Carmen: Destiny
I watch Emilio Reyes Cruz, in his freshly
starched and pressed army uniform, move down the
street like an alley cat with his head lowered, eyes
staring straight ahead and his long legs gliding real
smooth underneath him. Heading towards his
father’s house in El Campo Colorado, he crosses 4th
Street and glances up at me on the steps of my Tía
Julia’s porch. I pull my skirt up just a little bit, slowly
moved my legs from underneath me and stretch
them out full-length in the warm sun. He smiles.
I always dream the beginning the way it really
happened. The way we met. It’s the ending I dream
differently, sometimes better, most times worse. The
dreams with happier endings, where Emilio and I
stay together, leave me feeling depressed and
angry—for being such a pendeja and for still having
hope when everyone knows your destiny is your destiny
and you can’t escape it.
I’m tired. For months now, I’ve been keeping
watch. Making sure they don’t get too close. But
they’re smart. They followed us when we moved
from the house to the apartment and sometimes
they’ve even knocked on the front door, pretending
they’re the apartment manager or the Avon Lady or
even schoolkids selling candy. But I’m good at
watching. I stay up day and night, keeping them
away. Watching and thinking.
"Ay, m’ija, stay away from that one. He’s got girlfriends
all over the place." Tía Julia stops sorting
the beans and looks me straight in the eye. "I see you
watching him. Better not let Clara find out. She
can’t stand the sight of him."
"¿Y por qué no?"
"He’s wild, he’s trouble and he’s a Cruz. Clara
thinks the whole family is stuck-up. And on top of all
that, I just heard he got kicked out of the Army. If I
were you m’ijita, I’d forget about him."
I think a lot about the past. People and places
that are gone. Like the flower fields I worked in
when I was a girl or my father’s shotgun house in
Colton. I think about death, too. Mostly my own.
The doctor Rita takes me to wants me to see another
doctor about the voices. But I tell him, hell no,
I’m not crazy, I don’t need that kind of help.
"Are you ready?" Clara yells from the hallway.
I look at myself in the mirror. I’m looking good.
Low-cut red V-neck sweater, tight black ankle-slit
skirt, suede platform shoes and ruby-red lipstick. ¡Ay
que chula! Emilio and I made a plan last week to
meet tonight at the Harmony Ballroom Halloween
Festival. I thought today would never come.
"Almost."
Clara enters the small bedroom and her eyeliner-
perfect eyes widen.
"¡Carmen, pareces una puta! You look like a
whore! Can you even breathe in that?" she asks.
"I’m not changing," I announce, glaring back at
her.
"Sin vergüenza," she utters as she shakes her
head. "You have no shame. At least wipe off some of
that lipstick. And hurry up, Vicente is waiting in the
car."
The ballroom is beautiful: Red and gold streamers
unfurl from the ceiling like silky corkscrew curls
while people in their Saturday-night best slowly fill
the hall. A large band performs on a spacious stage,
and in the far corner a bar serves soft drinks and
beer. I scan the faces and most everyone is from La
Vista or Fullerton. I see La Coqueta Linda Velásquez
in her padded push-up bra flirting with the newly
married Ernesto Gómez. La Gordita Ginny Luna
and her two skinny sisters anxiously eye the men
across the room, hoping they’ll be asked to dance.
Out on the dance floor Chueco and my cousin Esther
shout insults at each other as a small group of men
egg them on. Most of the guys, including Emilio’s
four brothers, stand together near the exit, drinking
beer, listening to the music and watching the crowd.
I spot Emilio in a dark corner, surrounded by a
group of girls. Leaning back against the wall, I place
my hand on my hip, strike what I think is a sexy
pose and wait for him to notice me. He doesn’t. I shift
my hips. Still no response. Frustrated, I finally walk
over to him.
Emilio beams as I approach him. Bending to
kiss my cheek, he whispers in my ear, "¡Ay, mi vida!
¿Por qué te quiero tanto?"
I smile sweetly and narrow my eyes. Glancing
quickly at each other, the other girls quietly move
away. We’re alone. His lips brush my face and he
whispers in my ear again. I know I can’t believe a
word he says. But it is nice to hear.
Across the room I catch Clara watching us.
Strains of "Moonlight Serenade" fill the ballroom as
she makes her way towards us. I grab Emilio’s arm
and pull him onto the dance floor. Emilio grins as he
watches Clara disappear into the crowd.
"So I heard you quit the Army?" I ask.
Emilio’s eyes crinkle as he chuckles, "And who
told you that?"
"My Tía Julia."
"Well, Tía Julia’s wrong. You can’t quit the
Army; I went AWOL."
"Why?"
"I didn’t like it," he answers seriously.
"And what didn’t you like?"
"We were treated like slaves. Worse than in the
fields. And besides. . ." He smiles. "I missed you."
"¡Ni me conoces! Maybe it was someone else you
were thinking of," I sharply answer.
He playfully kisses my neck, and I think if the
Army is worse than the fields, then I don’t blame
him for leaving. Emilio’s worked the fields since he
was six-years old. He hates them more than I do.
The song ends and Emilio gently presses his
body against mine. ¡Que mal hombre! Tía Julia was
right, what a ladies’ man.
"Let’s leave," he whispers.
Emilio pulls me out the door, through the crowd
outside and into the parking lot. We stop at a dark
blue Chevy, and he pushes me up against the door
and kisses me. Soft, slow and deep.
"Oye, cabrón," I whisper as I push him away. "I
have to get back. Clara saw us."
"Come on, let’s go for a ride."
"I can’t."
"Ay, mi amor, vamos no más por una hamburguesita."
"I’m not hungry."
"Mentirosa. I don’t believe you," he softly utters.
He looks at me, smiles, and his hands, deep golden
brown and heavily calloused, slowly button my
sweater. I close my eyes and he softly kisses each eyelid.
"All right," I sigh quickly, "let’s go."
We get in, he starts the engine, and the Chevy
races out of the parking lot.
The frayed living room curtains flutter and I
snap awake. The smell of blood fills the apartment.
Heavy breathing. There are so many of them. They
exhaust me. I reach for the knife under the sofa
cushions and listen. They’re whispering about me. I
shout at them to stop and, grabbing the knife, I run
to the front door, throw it open, and scream
"¡Cabrones, no me van a agarrar!" Neighbors peek
out their windows, too afraid to open their doors. I
slam the door shut and pray to God to help me.
We speed through Anaheim and Fullerton
towards the camp. The night sky is blue-black.
"I thought we were getting something to eat."
"Pues, I guess I changed my mind. Nothing
seems to be open, anyway," Emilio answers.
Looking across at him, I wonder if he’s telling
the truth.
"So then where are we going?" I ask.
I tell Rita to drive me to East Los Angeles, to
the flat part right before the hills. My cousin Lupe
gave me the address of a woman who will help me,
una curandera. When Rita and I walk into the
small living room filled with waiting patients, they
move aside and make way for me to walk through.
La Curandera peeks her tiny, shriveled face through
the doorway of the bedroom, looks at me and waves
me into the room. She hands me a towel and tells
me to take off my clothes and lay down on a small
bed. I do as she says. Her strong hands rub my body
with an ointment that smells like mint and rose
petals and I feel my muscles relax. I want to cry. I
ask her what is wrong with me but she doesn’t
answer. Instead she prays and takes an egg, a
tomato, and a lemon and rolls each over my body.
"Alguien la quiere ver viejita," she finally says
to me. "Someone wants you to be an old woman."
"¿Quién? I ask.
"Alguien."
Who? Who would want to hurt me? And then I
think of the Mexican woman Emilio is seeing.
Emilio turns left onto Buena Vista, crosses the
railroad tracks and enters El Campo. The tiny
barrio is asleep. We drive up a pot-holed dirt road to
one of the small wooden houses.
"I’ll be right back," he whispers, jumping out of
the car.
He runs up the dirt path, leaps onto the wooden
porch and reaches for the door. The door opens suddenly
from the inside and Emilio faces his father,
Don Antero, who stares first at Emilio and then out
at me in the car.
I hear arguing in Spanish. Don Antero sounds
furious. Emilio abruptly turns and walks back to the
car.
"What happened?" I ask as he opens the door.
"He won’t let us stay here."
"You asked him if we could stay here? I can’t
believe you! Take me home, now!"
Emilio slides into the driver’s seat and turns to
me.
"Carmen, let’s go to Yuma. To get married."
"Married? ¿Estás loco or what? Is this a joke?" I
ask.
No reply. He stares at me, waiting for my
response.
I turn away and look out the window. What is
he saying? Does he know what he’s doing?
I look back at Emilio. I see the high Indian
cheekbones, the green, taunting cat’s eyes. Who is
this man I think I’m in love with but whom I know
little about, other than he likes to drink and he likes
women? I get embarrassed and look away. Closing
my eyes, I try to think it all out, but instead I feel the
springs in my Tía’s lumpy sofa, the hot sun of the
flower fields, the slap of my father’s hand. And the
need and desire in Emilio’s eyes.
"Okay. . .vamos," I say. He starts the engine, and
we head towards Yuma.
When she is finished, La Curandera hands me
the lemon, egg and tomato in a crumpled paper bag
and tells me to throw it away as far as I can. I don’t
know if this means as far as I can throw or far away
from where I live, so I decide to throw it in the trash
bin of the market we stop in before we leave East
Los Angeles. I heave the bag with all my strength
and then get back into the car, where Rita stares at
me with a face filled with fear and worry. She thinks
I’m out of my mind.
"Vamos," I say, "let’s go home."
She starts the engine and we head back.
(THE RED CAMP is reprinted with permission from the publisher of The Red Camp by Debra Diaz (University of Houston – Arte Público Press, 1996) to buy a copy of THE RED CAMP, go to their website at http://www.arte.uh.edu/view_book.aspx?isbn=1558851690)