“Wish I did, baby. And what’s my other choice—your father’s
world? I hate your father.”
“I love him, Xochil.”
“You can’t love two people who hate each other.”
“My father doesn’t hate you.”
“He hates my brother. And if he knew me he’d hate me too.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Xochil. You’re just a
girl.”
“Jack Evans, I’m more woman than you deserve.” A part of
her wanted to tell him about that summer evening, about the
word rape, about how that evening had reshaped her words, her mind, her body, how it had made her old and callused her heart and parts of her that were too young to be callused. But she knew she wouldn’t tell him, not ever, not him or anyone. And she knew, too, that she was condemned to be older than everyone around
xo ch i l l 139
her, and perhaps angrier. Always. And just then the thought occurred to her that as much as she hated her curse, she was half in love with it. But a part of her still envied his innocence. He was wrong, of course. She wasn’t a girl. But he, he was a boy—in every way. But he was right about the word superior. Sometimes she wore that word like a nun wore a habit. She kissed him again.
“Go and fight your war, Jack Evans.”
“When I come back I’m going to marry you.”
“I won’t be at that wedding, Jack.”
“We have to believe in each other.”
“What you mean is that I have to believe in you. What you
mean is that I should just shut up about all the things I believe in.
Jack, I don’t believe in boys who believe in war.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
She shook her head and turned away. I know exactly what I’m saying.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” she said. “I’m going home.” She felt her feet walking
away, but it didn’t seem like she was touching the ground at all.
It was like she was torn, or the earth was torn, or maybe she and the earth, they were both torn. She looked up at the afternoon sky. Blue as Jack Evans’s eyes. Such a perfect Saturday afternoon.
And the grass in the park was green with all the August rains, and even though it was already September, it was still summer. She felt the hot tears on her face.
“I’m leaving in two weeks,” he shouted.
“Go,” she whispered, “just go.”
And then suddenly, without wanting to, he ran after her,
grabbed her, held her. “Why can’t you just accept that we’re different?”
“War isn’t like accepting the heat in the middle of summer.
War isn’t like accepting the fact that it’s cold in December or accepting that trees lose their leaves.”
140 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e He stared at her. “Where did you get that? Where did you get
that from?”
“Not everyone thinks like your father.” She pushed away from
him.
“Normal people—they think like my father.”
“Normal? That’s not something I ever wanted to be.” She
smiled, though really all she wanted to do was cry. “My mom,
Jack, she has this funny idea that men like to fight because they lack imagination.”
“You’re mother’s wrong.”
“She’s got a thumb that’s smarter than you are, Jack.”
“She’s wrong, Xochil.”
“Oh, she’s a girl too.”
“Let me get this straight—my father’s wrong, but your moth-
er, your mother, she’s right. Is that it?”
“Yes,” she whispered, “that’s right.” She squeezed his hand,
then let it drop.
“You’re acting crazy, Xochil.”
“I’m acting crazy. Yes. Crazy. You sign up for a war to kill
people you don’t even know for reasons you don’t even know—”
“I know the reasons.”
“I don’t think you do, Jack.”
“Don’t you know about the domino theory?”
“You believe that?”
“They’re all godless, Xochil.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Xochil, this is your country.”
Just the way he said that. Just the way he looked at her, as
if she were beneath contempt. Just for that instant. There was nothing to say to him. No, that wasn’t true. There were too many things to say to him. And it was all too much work. Useless work, because he would never understand the things she carried, would never respect her because the things he held in his head and in his
xo ch i l l 141
heart would keep him from appreciating anything about her. He
was in love with her looks. She was something beautiful that he wanted. That’s what it must have been all along. Looking into his pleading eyes, she knew that he wasn’t pleading for her to understand him, but to change. To change herself. To destroy herself.
To make herself into whatever image of “American” or “woman”
that he believed with all his heart she should become.
She would never reach him. Just like her mother had never
reached her father.
“Yes, you’re right. I’m acting crazy.” She whispered it, but
something in the way she said those words paralyzed him. And
so, they stood there, both of them, standing, staring, searching, trying to find a road they could both walk. Side by side. But that road did not exist.
She didn’t know how long they stayed frozen like that, look-
ing at each other.
She didn’t remember who walked away first.
She found herself moving toward home. “You think I’ll love
you as a soldier?” She knew he didn’t hear her.
Such a perfect Saturday afternoon. And he’d ruined every-
thing. And why had she thought that this boy was so special?
You’re not you’re not special nothing special at all I hate you I hate you and your blue eyes and your hair the color of straw hate you and hate the way you say my name hate you till there’s no more air in the sky.
lourde s
You watch and watch your children. Your life is lost in the
watching.
You have done this watching from the instant they took their
first breaths, all of them hungry for air. Watching them is your passion, your addiction, the habit you wear every day. You are a nun, a sentry. You have never wavered from your vocation.
There are days you hate your husband because he does not
share your addiction. He loves so differently. He wants only to control. His control is a fiction. His children cannot be controlled.
You are right about this. You are right about this. But what is your watching, anyway? That, too, is control.
You tell yourself you will stop. Your watching will change
nothing. They are rivers, wild and raging, and they will follow their own courses. But you cannot stop.
Your body is a diary of their lives.
You have become nothing more than a camera that photo-
lourde s l 143
graphs your children as they grow. You see what they were. You see what they have become. You keep their images inside you.
You see how your daughter has become a woman, and you know
that already she has paid a price. There is a sadness in her face that makes her more beautiful than you ever thought possible.
And you know you cannot take away the pain. You cannot heal
her. Something happened to her. She will not speak of it. But
there is a knowledge of something in her eyes. And you did not protect her from this thing. You see her, your daughter. She is and is not a mystery.
You remember the first time you held your son.
You remem-
ber the terrible pain of his birth, the dark eyes that stared into your face as if he were born studying everything around him, and how you felt he was already old. The most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. All your life, you have loved him more than you have loved anything else. You have loved him more than your husband, more than your daughter, more than your youngest son, who is
an angel. And you wonder why you have committed this sin of
choosing one above the others. There are days when you hate
yourself for this sin. You know you would do anything to protect him. But you also know there is nothing you can do to protect
him.
You have watched this son of yours fight a war with your hus-
band all his life. When you first stumbled upon the war, you told yourself you would remain neutral. But you already knew, even as you made that promise, already knew you had taken sides. And
there are moments when a piece of you wants to hurt the man she loves. Because he has never learned to love his son.
He cannot hide from you, this son of yours. But he does
hide.
They all hide, all of them. From one another. From you. And
yet there is no place to hide.
You remember what your father-in-law told you before he
144 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e died: “Lourdes, stories are all lies. We want them, cling to them, write them as if they have a nice beginning and a middle and an end, as if they are novels with neat morals, but it is all a lie. Your husband—my son—he does not know this. He will never know
this. But, Lourdes, believe me when I tell you we have only pieces. We have theories and ideas and moments and memories and
the lies other people tell us. That is all we have. We tie our ideas and our memories and the lies we tell ourselves, and all of the scenes we remember—the scenes we were in, and all the other
lies we have been told and have believed, we tie all those things together like beads in a rosary. And it becomes our prayer. But it is a lie, Lourdes. There is only chaos.” You remember you wrote those words down so you would never forget. And you have kept
those words somewhere on a piece of paper and someday you will give them to your children. You remember Enrique. Your father-in-law. How he laughed when he gave you those words and you
remember thinking that he had embraced the chaos. He, who
had lost what he loved most. He had let it all go. All of it. That is when he died.
But you? You are not ready to let go of what you love. Some-
times you think you will break. From all the things you know.
From all the things you feel. From all the wars you see. From all the things you have heard. And sometimes it is all chaos. The heart cannot live there.
And your heart, your tired heart, you feel it is turning to stone.
To keep your heart flesh—your life has been reduced to that.
ros ar io
You lived in Paris for a year. You were sixteen when a handsome man invited you and your mother to see the Eiffel Tower. At first you did not love him, though you always loved his face.
You remember.
Already your father had married your three sisters off to
wealthy men. But you were promised to the church. You would
become a nun. Your family would be blessed. It was your duty to obey. Your father had made a promise. A sacrifice. A virgin for God. His gift.
Enrique saved you from a life you did not want. You remem-
ber that day when he came to ask for your hand.
“She belongs to God.” That is what your father said.
“She is not a horse to be traded.”
“She will be a blessing to this family.”
“You cannot bribe God with a daughter.”
You remember the rage in your father’s eyes.
146 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e You remember being taken to the monastery. “You will take
your vows.” You remember your father’s stubborn voice. “When
you are ready, we will come and witness the sacred event and you will dedicate your life to praying for the sins of the world.” You will never forget those words. You will never forget the look on your mother’s face as they left you there, in that beautiful monastery, so stark and lovely and sad. You remember thinking there are worse prisons in this world.
You refused the tears. Because you were hard. You had always
been hard. And you wonder now what Enrique saw in you, you
who had been so proud and arrogant.
Enrique came for you the next day. The nuns did not stop
him. “I have bought them a new chapel.”
“You paid for me?”
“No. I did what your father did. I bribed them.”
You remember his smile. You remember his kiss. And you
thought maybe he would own you. But your father owned you
too. Enrique would be a better owner. And so you married him.
He bribed your father too. He was a master of that art.
A month after Madero had been assassinated, you arrived in
El Paso, the Ides of March, a cold day, the sky like a blue piece of ice. You will carry that day into paradise.
You remember leaving, traveling, arriving. You remember
Enrique, who could be hard and cruel, Enrique, who was angry,
Enrique, who loved you and never stopped loving you.
You are happy to die in this house in a country that was never yours.
What do you have now, anyway? You have Lourdes and a son
who does not deserve her. You have her children. They are the
only country you needed.
Everything is in order. Your piano for your Charlie. Your jew-
elry? What good was it? You remember your attorney informing
you that your jewels could buy a mansion and the furniture to fill
ros ar io l 147
it. That is how he put it. That is the day Lourdes told you, “Come and live with us.”
You offered her your jewelry, all of it. She would have none
of it. Enrique loved her too. She was incapable of being bribed.
And so you leave your jewels for her daughter. You know Enrique would not approve. You know Octavio will not approve. You do
not care. You are tired of being approved of.
You are leaving this earth.
The jewels will belong to Xochil. She will do with them as she likes. She will belong to whomever she wishes to belong.
You listen to your Carlos play the piano. Just as you asked. He is playing the piece of music you played for Enrique. The day he died, you played. You never touched the piano again.
You hear your father’s voice.
You belong to God. And you think, Yes, now you can belong to God.
lourde s . ros ar io.
Maria del Rosario Espejo Zaragosa. Her name, a piece of Cath-
olic theology, a fragment of Mexican history. Her dying more like a slow fading, a quiet disappearance. She is sleeping fitfully, half mumbling to herself.
Lourdes walks into the room, sits on the bed, combs her
hair with her fingers. “Shhhh.” But her mumbles continue and
Lourdes translates her mumbles. Complaints—complaints that
she still finds herself inhabiting a body. “I know, I know,” Lourdes whispers. “You’re tired.”
The room is dark, small, the faint smell of Rosario’s decaying body clinging to the air. The walls are cluttered with old photographs, images of better days, days when Rosario had been
younger, healthy, mobile, days when her husband had been alive, taken care of her, loved and adored her, read her words from poets who kept lovely ideas in their heads. The room haunted by photographs. You can almost hear the dead revising her biography.
lourde s . ros ar io. l 149
Lourdes draws the curtains and lets in th
e westering sun. She
scans the walls, searching, her eyes falling on the same familiar spot, a photograph of Rosario holding Xochil and Gustavo,
newly born. She keeps her eyes on the three of them for a second too long, grief replacing the ephemeral moment of joy. Was that what it was? Joy? That word had disappeared from the world too long ago now. But that was the only word that described the day Xochil and Gustavo had come out of her, screaming and kicking and stronger than anything she had ever seen. My God from me they came from me and oh that day had been so perfect and she had never been more alive oh yes it had been joy though she had not deserved anything so pure as that. Now she feels as if her Xochil is changing in ways that are sad and complicated and her Gustavo, too, and there is nothing to be done about it. Nothing at all, nothing to be done about the things that happened as you grew, as you aged and your heart turned as sour as your breath.
And there is nothing to be done about Rosario’s passing. Watch.
That’s what you can do. But, God, how she’d learned to love this woman. All that loving—and for what? All loving ever did was
take your heart and squeeze it until you bent over in pain.
Who was the liar who said love was kind?
Who was the liar who said love was a comfort?
Lourdes sat on the old leather chair next to the bed and took
her mother-in-law’s hand. Oh, I don’t regret. I don’t regret this love, amor.
The old woman quiets down, then opens her eyes. She smiles,
the late afternoon sun on her face. “Lourdes,” she whispers.
“Shhh, Shhh, I’m here.”
“Lourdes,” she whispers, a smile moving over her face. She opens her lips as if to say something else—then turns her head away.
Her eyes open wide like pieces of stained glass reflecting the harsh and dying sun.
vietnam
September 16, 1967
Today. Twenty soldiers dead.
They had names like William and Robert and Jerry, names
like Abe and Ernest. Names like Lawrence and Laifelt and Don-
nie and Harlan. They were named after fathers and uncles and
grandfathers. Named after generals.
They came from Alabama, Wisconsin, and California; Wash-
ington, Michigan, and Pennsylvania; Missouri, New York, Okla-
homa, and Colorado; New Jersey, Arkansas, Ohio, and Canada.