Names on a Map

  There was only silence. And lies. Yes, there were lies. That is all there was.

  On the road, no one except your brothers spoke to you. No

  one. Because you were too small. Because you were of no conse-

  quence. You were passed from one person to another. You existed as a comfort. That is how you remember it. They were calmer

  when they held you. And then they let you go. Passed you to

  someone else.

  You remember the sound of bullets, the sound of men dying.

  Deer die with more dignity than men—that is what you thought

  the first time you ever went hunting. You hate the way men die.

  And yet you know that is the duty of men. That is what you have always believed. That is what you told yourself many years later when you were in Italy, the dead all around you. Men. Dead. Dismembered. Arms, legs, hands, torsos. Blood and fields of men.

  You dreamed that harvest for years.

  You remember asking your mother if it was a war when you

  heard the sound of guns. You remember your mother’s trembling

  smile. “No, hijo de mi corazón, nomas es un batalla. No es gran cosa.”

  You smiled back at her though you did not understand the

  word batalla.

  You remember that your uncle was shot. That is the first time

  you ever saw blood. You did not cry. Your father smiled at you, kissed you, whispered your name, Octavio, mi rey.

  You remember a train ride.

  You remember the first time you heard your father speak

  in a foreign tongue. “English,” he said—and you repeated it.

  English.

  You remember too many things about your father, stories al-

  ways on his lips, though you did not understand any of them—

  o c t avio l 127

  stories of men whose names became as familiar to you as your

  fingers—Villa and Emiliano Zapata, Porfirio Díaz, Carranza,

  Huerta, Obregón, Francisco Madero—names that were thrown

  around like rocks breaking through windowpanes every time your uncles gathered around your living room, a shattering rage in the sound of their voices, Mexico ruined because of those bastards.

  Except Díaz. ¡Que viva el Porfiriato!

  You remember coming home from school one day and tell-

  ing your father you were reading a book about Abraham Lincoln

  and your father looked at you and nodded and you understood,

  understood because you were fifteen and old enough, understood that your father did not care about the civil war of his adopted country, and then he smiled at you and said, “Villa is dead. He was assassinated.” And then he laughed and you knew that your

  father was happy though you did not know where that happiness

  came from. “He’s joined Zapata in hell, that bastard.” And you dreamed about Zapata and Villa in hell. And you dreamed about

  their assassins and they were in hell too.

  Assassins. It was a word you were raised with: ¡asesinos! A familiar word. You held their images in your head, knew what they looked like because you had seen all the pictures, and you half thought that they were handsome and strong, and had wondered

  if you would ever look like that. And you felt you were betraying your father and so for a long time you refused to look at pictures of the revolution.

  Mexico was a song that broke your father in half, the only

  song he ever learned by heart. And he stopped loving you. There was room for only a lost Mexico and your mother. That is what

  you remember. Like Mexico, you, too, became a ghost.

  Many years later, you remember your own son hanging up a

  poster of Zapata in his room. You remember the river of anger

  that ran through you, a river made of flames. You remember tearing it down, shredding it to pieces, your son watching you, a look

  128 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e of stunned surprise on his face. You remember the words that

  came out of your mouth: “You are spitting on the grave of your grandfather.”

  You remember your son looking away.

  You remember thinking that you were a ghost again.

  a b e

  You wake in the morning and you think, No, no, God, please, no, sleep, God, sleep. You feel your body ache as it has never ached, your legs, your arms, your chest, your stomach. There is no muscle in your body that does not hurt.

  For an instant you do no know where you are.

  But after that long second of being lost, you know exactly

  where you are, the men all around you, shaking off their sleep, their movements like the sound of worker bees. Like them,

  you rise in silence and a part of you thinks you have become a monk. You do not want to speak. The words of a maggot are

  useless. You make your rack, make sure the sun reflects off your shoes. As you stand at attention in front of your row of metal bunk beds, you hear the voice of your DI staring all of you

  down, Very good, ladies. You know he is pleased. As pleased

  as he will ever be. Mostly you are maggots, but sometimes you

  are ladies.

  130 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e You stand there, as still as you can, almost lifeless. You yearn for the smell of your mother’s coffee, the sound of your sister’s voice, singing as she combs her hair, the sound of your younger brother’s impatient questions, Why can’t dogs talk?

  You make the thoughts disappear.

  These thoughts will not help you.

  Focus. Discipline. That is what will help you.

  You will force your mind tell your body to do what it must do.

  You will not screw up. Not today. Not ever. You will never make your platoon pay for something you did not do.

  You start looking out for the ones who will make you all pay.

  You hate them.

  But you know you are all in this together.

  All day, you are kept busy. You run an obstacle course and fall.

  You hear the word maggot, and you pick yourself up and finish.

  You fall. Your DI places his boot on your back as he makes you do push-ups. You do not stop. You finish. You will not let anyone see you quit. Not today. Not ever. And then you hear the words

  “Get up, maggot. Someone’s gonna crush you, maggot. Are you

  getting this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are dog shit. You are chicken shit. You are buffalo shit.

  You are pigeon shit. You are the smell of a garbage truck. Are you getting this, maggot?”

  And then, for the moment, you are released. You fall in line.

  You file into a classroom. You listen to military history and the history of the Marines. You are learning. This is like school, you tell yourself, but it is not like any school you have ever attended.

  You eat. You do not taste the food. But you’ve never been

  hungrier.

  And then, finally, when the long day ends, you take a shower

  alongside your fellow recruits. You smile to yourself. Maggots.

  Ladies.

  a b e l 131

  Someday you will all be Marines.

  When you fall into bed, you start to utter a prayer, but do

  not finish. You sleep. Too tired, you will not dream. You will not dream again for months.

  Your dreams will begin again when you go to war.

  xo ch i l

  Xochil Espejo, Xochil Espejo, Xochil Espejo.”

  She placed her hand over his mouth. “Stop saying my name.”

  “Why?”

  “Expand your vocabulary.” She looked at him, laughed, kissed

  him.

  He pulled her close, closer, never averting his eyes, never

  blinking. He felt her breath, as clean and new and warm as anything he’d ever been close to. He ran his fingers though her long black hair, and the thought
entered his head that her hazel eyes were a kind of sky. “I don’t care about words, Xochil. I care about you.” She opened her mouth, but before any word came out, he

  put his finger on her lips as if to gently silence her. “Who told you girls were supposed to kiss guys?”

  She pushed him away. “Who told you that boys always had

  to be in charge?”

  “My dad.”

  xo ch i l l 133

  “He actually told you that?”

  “Well, no, not exactly. I mean, I just kinda watch him. Your

  dad’s the same way. Don’t tell me you don’t see.”

  “I’ll tell you what I see, Jack Evans. Dads couldn’t explain

  the difference between 7Up and dishwater. Don’t you know that?

  You think my dad’s in charge at our house?”

  “Well, your mom, isn’t she taking care of your grandmoth-

  er?”

  “Your point?”

  “She’s your dad’s mom, right?”

  “Oh, I get it. You think my mom does that on my dad’s or-

  ders?”

  “Well—”

  “You’re a very special gringo, you know that?”

  “Don’t call me a gringo.”

  “That’s what you are.” She laughed. “If it was a bad thing,

  do you think I’d be kissing you?” She laughed again. “And if you want to know the real score, it’s not as if my dad ordered her to take care of his mother. Families aren’t like the army. My mom and my grandmother, they have something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something most people don’t have. And my dad, he’s just on

  the sidelines. A lot of guys, they’re like coaches—they sit around, get fat, get paid for doing nothing. It’s the players that count.”

  “Coaches count. And your dad’s not fat.”

  “Don’t be so literal.”

  “Coaches count, Xochil.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure.” She shook her head. “My grandmother, she’s

  really sick right now, you know? I hate that. She’ll be gone. And my dad doesn’t know what the hell to do. But, my mom, she’s

  the real soldier. She worries and figures out what needs to be done, takes her out to get some air, bathes her, takes her to see her doctors, sings to her, asks her all the right questions. She’s the one who knows what hurts and why. And at night, I can hear my

  134 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e grandmother whisper my mother’s name. And if she’s in pain or

  has a bad dream, do you think she calls for my dad? That’s her son, Jack. Do you think she calls out his name in the night? Hell no.

  She screams out for my mother.”

  She pretended not to notice the way he watched her.

  “I hope you don’t grow up to be like your father.”

  “That’s a mean thing to say.”

  “He doesn’t like Mexicans, Jack.” She hadn’t meant to bring up the subject. Not today. But she’d said it—and there it was. That subject. Staring at both of them.

  He looked at her, almost waiting for her to take her words

  back. The steel in her eyes. He could almost taste that steel—

  bitter and cool on his tongue. But he had some steel of his own.

  “It’s not that he doesn’t like Mexicans. It’s just that, well, he’s a little uncomfortable. He’s used to people being more American.”

  “More American. Great.”

  “He’s not a bad guy, Xochil. You gotta give him a chance.”

  “Like he gave Gustavo a chance? Gustavo used to be your

  friend.” She watched him, waited for him to say something.

  Used to be. He wanted to tell her that they’d argued, that they’d almost gone at each other the last time they’d run into each other.

  If I ever catch you touching my sister again, I swear I’ll cut your fucking balls off.

  “Jack?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen, Gustavo can’t even go over to your house because

  your father goes fucking ballistic over his hair.”

  “Pretty mouth.”

  “Don’t pretty mouth me, Jack Evans. I’m not June Cleaver.

  I don’t intend to live a conventional life vacuuming carpets in

  xo ch i l l 135

  sensible flat shoes and collecting double S&H Green Stamps on Wednesdays at the local Safeway so I can get something new for my kitchen.”

  “Right. That’s why you put on a uniform every day for the

  last four years at an all-girl’s Catholic school—because you’re not going to live a conventional life.”

  “That was my father’s decision. If you think I’ll be a good

  Catholic girl the rest of my life you got a tuerca loose in your pretty head.”

  “Pretty head?”

  “To go with my pretty mouth.”

  “What’s a tuerca?”

  “Screw loose, gringo. Learn Spanish.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t say things you don’t mean. Maybe you and your dad

  should move to Iowa.”

  “Iowa? Don’t be crazy.”

  “The people there—well—they’re more American.”

  “Stop it, Xochil.”

  “I won’t stop it. You’re dad’s a bigot.”

  “He’s not. He just doesn’t like long hair.”

  “Gustavo’s the most beautiful man in the world.”

  “That’s nice, that you worship your brother like that.”

  Xochil looked at him, locking her jaw and wincing. After a

  few moments, she smiled at him, an idea lighting up her eyes. “In our English classes, Sister Marie used to give us a word for the day—so we could expand our vocabularies. She said to expand

  one’s vocabulary was to expand one’s mind.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. And one day she gave us the word conde -

  scending.”

  “Okay. Look, don’t fight with me.”

  “I’m not fighting.”

  136 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e

  “I don’t like that word.”

  “You’re eighteen years old. You should get to know words you

  don’t like.”

  “I try to avoid words.”

  “So do alley cats and pigs.”

  “Don’t, Xochil.”

  “Jack, listen to me. We are the words we use.”

  “That’s a crock of shit. Touch—that’s what’s important.”

  “Now, that’s a crock of shit. You don’t believe in touch. You

  believe in foreplay.”

  “What?”

  “Foreplay. It’s a word.”

  “Can we drop this word thing?”

  Xochil shook her head. “Your English isn’t much better than

  your Spanish if you ask me. You know what? I gotta split.”

  He ran after her, panic in his voice. “Don’t go. Don’t. Don’t be like this, Xochil.”

  “Like what?” Sometimes she was still making her mind up

  about him. She could be like her hazel eyes—some days dark and muddy, some days almost green as a leaf.

  “I’ve enlisted.” He hadn’t meant to tell her—not like this. He looked at her. She looked right back at him. He couldn’t read

  her, not today. “I’m probably going off to Nam. And I love you, and—”

  “What?”

  “I said I’ve enlisted.”

  “Why?”

  “To fight, Xochil.”

  “Fight who?”

  “The Communists.”

  “Why?”

  “For my country.”

  “Okay.”

  xo ch i l l 137

  “Okay?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “You should be proud of me.”

  “Okay.” r />
  “I’m doing this for you.”

  “For me?”

  “For all of us.”

  “All of us, Jack? Did you take a poll? Did you go door to

  door?”

  “Stop it, Xochil. You sound just like your brother.”

  “Do I?”

  “Just stop.”

  “So you want to be a man, is that it?”

  “I am a man.”

  “What makes you a man? A high school diploma? The fact

  that you shave? The fact that you have hair on your balls? You want to be a man? Then don’t put this on other people. Don’t put this on me. Just don’t do that to me, Jack. You’re just a boy with a limited vocabulary who thinks going off to war will—hell, who knows why. Who knows? You don’t even know.”

  “We’re fighting against the Communists, Xochil.”

  “Explain Communism, Jack. Explain it to me.”

  Her and Gustavo. They thought the same. “Shit. I don’t have

  to explain anything.”

  “Can you explain who the Viet Cong are? Can you tell me

  why they’re fighting?”

  “How the hell do you know anything?”

  “Ever hear of newspapers? Magazines? The news?”

  “Fuck the news.”

  “You don’t know condescending, you don’t know Communism, and you don’t know how to speak Spanish. You don’t know anything, not about love, not about war, not about anything —and you’re not even a very good kisser.”

  138 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e Jack grabbed her arm and squeezed it.

  She glared at him.

  He let her arm drop.

  “I have a vocabulary word for the day too,” he whispered. “Su -

  perior. You think you’re fucking superior.”

  “Maybe I do,” she whispered back. She looked into his blue

  eyes, then smiled, and she half wondered to herself what her own smile meant. She reached for him, placed her hand behind his

  neck, and bent his head toward her. She placed a kiss on his fore-head. “Don’t go,” she said, “don’t be a soldier.”

  “Don’t be a little girl. The world needs soldiers, Xochil.”

  “The world needs food. It needs clothes and jobs. What it

  gets is soldiers.”

  “Soldiers get us food and clothes. And they get us freedom so

  we can have schools, and they—”

  “Well, shit, Jack, then why the hell do we need teachers or

  social workers?”

  “You live in the clouds.”