“Why does it have to be that way?”
She placed her hand on the black armband, searched for the knot, then began to untie it. “Where did you get this?”
“I have some friends. We get together.”
“Starting a revolution, are you?”
“Not much of one.” He laughed.
“He won’t listen. Here, I’ll wash this for you.”
“Great. Okay, Mom, wash it.” He felt her unloosen the knot and watched her as she held the black cloth in her hand. “What happens if I don’t go?”
She searched his black eyes and wondered where they came from.
Some other continent. Some unreachable place. Eyes with a different history, a different future. Yes, she hoped a different future. But didn’t they come from her, those eyes, from a part of her she’d buried?
“What happens if I don’t go, Mom? What will happen to me?”
He waited for her to nod.
She looked away.
“Mom, I don’t know if I can go. If I can’t die for something I don’t believe in, why should I kill for it?”
What will you do? She did not ask him the question. She stood over him and kissed the top of his head. He smelled clean. Still new in this decaying world. Still a boy. “What should I make for dinner?”
“Arroz con pollo.”
lourde s . o c t avio. l 115
“ Your father’s favorite dish.”
“Mine too.”
“Peace at last.”
“You know he’ll have to go—if his country calls.”
“I hate that expression. His country barely knows him.”
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“You have so much faith in the rules and reasons of nations.
Where did you get that, Octavio? Where did you learn to believe everything a country told you to believe?”
“We owe allegiance—”
“To what, Octavio?”
“This country has been good to us.”
“I have been good to you, too, amor.”
“You’re talking like a—”
“Don’t say Communist. I go to Mass every Sunday.”
“I wasn’t going to say Communist.”
“What were you going to say?”
“Like an ingrate.”
“Like an ingrate?” Even she was surprised by the bitter taste
in her mouth as she laughed. “I’m talking like a mother, Octavio. A mother who doesn’t want anything to happen to her son.”
“Nothing will happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Nothing will happen. He’ll go. He’ll fight. He’ll come
back.”
“But he’ll be different.”
“Yes. In some ways he’ll be harder. In some ways he’ll be
softer.”
“Except he’ll hide the softness.”
“He already does that.”
She looked at her husband. “I’m surprised you notice.”
“Lourdes, he’s my son.”
116 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e
“Yes. Your son.” She turned her head toward the window
again. “The world never changes, does it?”
“It’s a small conflict, Lourdes.”
“It isn’t so small for the men who die, Octavio. And for
what?”
“For ideas, Lourdes.”
“I’d rather die for bread.”
He shook his head. They were silent for a moment. It was a
lie, what she’d said. Even she knew that. “This country is an idea, amor, is that so bad?”
“Well, it’s a good deal more than that, isn’t it?” She cleared her throat. “It’s so easy to say that, Octavio. But whose idea is it?
Mine? Yours? Whose? Tell me. It’s one thing to put up a poster—
it’s quite another to pick up arms.” She wanted to scream, lecture, say everything she’d ever felt about the dirty business of war and manhood and everything else that had been scarring and scratch-ing at her heart—but she stopped herself. That’s what she was
best at—stopping herself. She turned around and combed her
husband’s hair with her fingers, a tender habit she’d developed over the many years they’d been together. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, almost as if she were smoking a cigarette. “I promise you I’ll never make you die for my ideas, amor. Promise me you’ll never make me die for yours.”
“What are you talking about, Lourdes?”
“If they take Gustavo—”
“If they take Gustavo, it will be his own damned fault.”
“What are you saying?”
“He knows the rules—but no, he wanted to wait before he
went to college. First thing he does after he graduates is get a job at Benny’s Body Shop.”
“He likes his job.”
“Likes his job? I didn’t raise him to be a common laborer.”
“Whatever happened to our respect for the working man?”
lourde s . o c t avio. l 117
“It’s got nothing to do with respect. That’s not the kind of
work I want for my son. What is he doing with that good mind
you claim he has?”
“He’s eighteen. He has time to find himself.”
“Oh yes, that’s what they all say now—they need to find
themselves. What in the hell does that mean exactly? It sounds like an excuse. Look at Xochil, she started attending college two weeks ago. But Gustavo, he’s left himself open—”
“So, if he goes to war, it’s his fault? He’s a boy, Octavio. He wears the armor of a man—but he’s a boy. And by what logic do
we blame him for our world, for our ideas, amor? We are the adults.
And damn us to hell for what we do to our children. I did not birth a son to put a rifle in his hand. And what will happen to Xochil if she loses him? Did you ever think of that?”
He smiled at her, as if the smile might ease the rage in her
voice. “You’re still that fierce girl I married.”
“I’m afraid that fierce girl has acquired a politics.”
“Well, what’s a lioness without teeth?”
They stared at each other, their smiles breaking into laughter.
They knew exactly how to keep the truce.
He pulled her close to him. “If he goes, he’ll come back. He’ll marry. He’ll have children. That’s the way the world is.”
“Yes,” she whispered, “that’s the way the world is.” She pressed herself into him, the clean smell of the soap he used filling her, and for a moment, she remembered the first time she had ever
washed his shirts, how she had been lost in that sweet and lovely and perfect task.
“Nothing will happen, Lourdes.”
She pulled away from him.
The crystal glass had warmed in her hand.
She’d been of no comfort to Gustavo when he came to her.
What will happen to me? She looked out the window and stared
at them, her sons, her Gustavo, her Carlos. Still talking. Still
118 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e laughing. It was September. But it could’ve been summer. Yes,
yes, yes, it was still summer. What could happen on such a perfect afternoon?
She took a drink.
If I can’t die for something I don’t believe in . . .
The taste of sweet liqueur.
Why should I kill for it? Why?
Nothing bad would happen.
adam
Da Nang, Vietnam, September 16, 1967
Dear Adam,
I hope and pray this letter finds you safe. Your last letter
made me a little sad. I know you signed up for this war and
I know you believe in what you’re doing. I know you’re a real
patriotic guy and I’ve always tried to respect that. And you were always pretty clear ab
out what you thought about my attitude.
I’ve always believed that we’re all entitled to our differences. Not everyone has to be the same. Everyone has a right to believe
what they want. But I have to tell you that you had no right to call Jim all those names. You filled up an entire paragraph with curse words. What gives you the right? Just because you’re like a brother to me and just because you’re fighting a war doesn’t give you the right. Let me tell you that my Jim doesn’t call you
120 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e names, now does he? I know there are other guys who are starting to call you guys over in Vietnam all kinds of things but you won’t ever hear those names from me. Or from Jim, either, for
that matter. He’s a peaceful man. Gentle in ways most people
don’t understand. Why is it a man can’t be gentle? Tell me,
Adam, why is that?
And my Jim, he was willing to go to jail, but I talked him
out of it. My parents don’t forgive me. My old man called me
a fucking bitch and a disgrace and a traitor and a goddamned
ingrate. And other things too. Well, you know him, so you can
picture all of it without too much trouble. And, hell, let’s not put all of what’s wrong with us on our disagreement about this thing in Vietnam. Me and my parents have been fighting our own war
since I was eight. Me marrying a “peacenik” was the last straw, I guess, but my Jim isn’t a cartoon character. He’s flesh and bone and he’s my heart. And you, too, Adam, you’re a piece of my
heart and that’s the truth. And I just can’t let that go.
Me and Jim, we’re applying for Canadian citizenship. We’re
never coming back. Does that mean we can’t be friends? I’ve
always believed you were good and decent and I still do. You
were the first boy that ever kissed me. The first boy that ever looked at me. You probably don’t even remember what you said
to me that day. We were in the eighth grade and my dad had
taken a belt to me and I was smarting—but mostly hurting on
the inside. And you said, “You don’t deserve that. Not a pretty girl like you.”
Words can heal. I guess you know that, don’t you? Your
words that day, they made a real difference to me. And I never thanked you. I don’t know if you want me to keep on writing to you, but until you tell me not to, these letters are going to keep coming. Evelyn said to leave you alone. She can be mean and
stubborn and as rough as hands that pick cotton. The last thing she said to me was that she was glad I was moving to Canada
so she wouldn’t ever have to look at me again. She said I was a
adam l 121
pothead and that all I was good for was licking coward’s asses.
There wasn’t any use in arguing with her.
I guess we’re all taking sides. Is that the way it is with us?
Are we still friends?
Love,
Stacy
P.S. I hope you’re still taking pictures. You got a gift. Everyone says so.
“You’re readin’ that fuckin’ letter again?”
“You writin’ a book?”
“If I knew how to write a fuckin’ book, you think I’d be here
right now?”
“Which one you readin’? The one from Evelyn or the one
from Stacy?”
“Stacy.”
“I knew it.”
“If you know so goddamned much then why are you asking?”
“You know what I think?”
“Shit. Here it comes. Here it fuckin’ comes.”
“I think you fuckin’ hate the fact that Stacy signed that letter, love. You hate that. I mean you really fuckin’ hate that. Makes it hard for you to fuckin’ hate her. Besides, mostly you hate her cause she fuckin’ married someone else.”
“You been giving this some thought, have you?”
“Sometimes, I think about things.”
“Well, think about something else. And fuck you. And that
guy she married probably doesn’t even have a dick.”
“You prove me right with every fuckin’ word.”
“You don’t shit from the rain.”
122 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e
“This rain is shit, I’ll tell you that. I used to like the fuckin’ rain.
Piss on it. Piss on all of it. When I get back home, I’m moving to fuckin’ Tucson, Arizona. The real fuckin’ Arizona, not this piece a shit Route 4 named by some whitebread jive-ass general who
thought he had a fuckin’ sense of humor. You know, if I never see another fuckin’ tree, well, that be all right by me.”
“I thought you said you were moving to New Mexico.”
“Arizona, New Mexico—it’s all the fucking same.”
“You’re talking out your ass.”
“What the fuck do you know?”
“You think all deserts are the same. You’re full of shit. I’m
from fucking El Paso, Texas, asshole. I know something about
fucking deserts.”
“Yeah, well, fuck El Paso. I want a piece of some real desert.”
“Like Tucson.”
“Yeah, like fuckin’ Tucson?”
Camera grinned and lit a cigarette. “All my old man did the
last two years of his life was fuckin’ cough. I swore I’d never smoke. And here I am smoking my ass off.”
Whit looked over at him and shook his head. “You wanna be
a good boy? That what you want? No room here for good boys.”
He laughed, his gold tooth glistening in the light.
“That tooth’s gonna get you killed.”
“It’s a goddamned lucky tooth. Damn lucky. Got it put in on
my sixteenth birthday.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it. That fuckin’ lucky tooth got you
drafted, Goldie.”
“Last guy that called me Goldie has two assholes. And don’t
blame my tooth for something your fuckin’ Uncle Sam did.”
“Don’t talk shit about my uncle.”
They laughed, fell silent, each of them smoking in the damp
air, both of them looking up, knowing the rain would start again, but happy it was gone—even for an hour.
adam l 123
“They say you can see a hundred miles ahead a you in the
Arizona desert. That’s for me. Ain’t no war in Arizona. No one sneaks up on you in the desert.”
“Shut up about the desert, will you? Just fuck the desert.”
“Yeah, well, fuck that fuckin’ letter. You know, I don’t like that letter. Don’t know why you’re always fuckin’ readin’ it. It just piss-es you off. And then you piss me off. So, you know, first chance I get, I’m gonna steal that away from you and stuff it down Charlie’s throat.”
Camera looked up at the sky. The clouds were closing in
again.
Whit grinned. “Better smoke you another cigarette. It’s fuck-
in’ gonna pour again. Man, I’m gonna dream of Tucson tonight.”
“Yeah, well, I’m gonna fuckin’ dream about a girl named
Xochil.”
o c t avio
You remember too many things about the country your father
fled—though you never knew that country. It was night when
they shook you awake—such a strange and gentle waking. You
remember the rooms of the house, large and full of things that caught your eye, the chandeliers, the figurines made of porcelain, the Talavera plates and urns you were not allowed to touch. You remember your new house in the new country with the new language, smaller, that house, but you liked it. You felt closer to your mother and your father and your four brothers and for the first time you felt as if you were part of a family instead of just another possession in a large house.
In Mexico, everyone was alw
ays preoccupied, busy, the house
full of men discussing things, arguing, and you still remem-
ber the looks of worry and anger, your mother always rushing
you out of rooms and telling you, “Octavio, do not ask ques-
tions. There are no answers.” But why were they so angry? You
o c t avio l 125
kept asking, always asking. But no one heard your questions.
In Mexico, there was never any time for you. You did not ex-
ist. There was only the talk of politics and presidents and talk of traitors and business and the running of the house, and the whispers of men who spoke in rooms you were not allowed to
enter—everything more important than any of the people who
resided in that house. That is what you remember—but you
wonder why. You were too small, a child, old enough to talk but not old enough to think.
But it is not Mexico you remember.
You cannot remember what you never knew. You remember
only the fragments that were lodged in your father’s memory. He gave you those fragments. That is your inheritance—the legacy
he left you.
Mexico was nothing more than a ghost that wounded your
father’s heart, that haunted your father’s memory, that followed all of your father’s footsteps. Not even the new country—the
country of amnesia—could erase his memory.
You were three when you left. You remember your mother
dressing you, putting a coat on you, telling you it would be cold.
You remember asking her why she was crying. Mothers cry is
all she said. You remember the hushed voices, your father with a gun, your uncles with rifles. You remember horses and two wag-ons. You remember your mother embracing the women who had
cared for you all your life. You remember her sorrow as she held your face between her palms.
Your brothers were older and you watched them as they
stood on the sidelines, quiet and anxious, worry written on their faces. You asked them what was wrong, and they shrugged and
told you to be quiet. You remember crying and one of them giv-
ing you a piece of candy and telling you that you were all going to a new place, telling you that you would have fun there, all of you, fun. You did not believe him. You remember that. But you
126 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e did not ask any more questions. Your mother was right—there
were no answers. There was only the sorrow that hung in the air.