Names on a Map

  believes he has captured that look of apprehension that sol-

  diers wear when they enter a new environment, the searching

  eyes, at once confident and tentative. At once frightened and

  frightening.

  They could kill.

  Those eyes are in his camera now, on his film. Happy. Hap-

  py with his photograph. He half wonders why he isn’t covering

  the war instead of fighting it or why he decided against going to college. He wanted to be a photographer. That dream still

  lives somewhere inside him. He will be turning twenty in a few

  68 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e months. He tells himself there will be time. When the war is over or when his tour of duty ends. There will be time.

  But for now he makes use of his good eye—the same eye that

  sees a good photograph senses the enemy. He is good on patrol.

  He has a useful gift. The gift will keep him alive. He smiles at the nickname the men in his platoon have given him: Camera.

  He likes the name.

  Today, it is quiet. Only the sound of the rain. But the weather is the enemy too. That is what he told his mother when he wrote to her last. He doesn’t talk about the battles. Battles, shit. Nothing but skirmishes. Snipers. Sometimes some artillery from the north. They’re picking us off a couple at a time. Nickel and dim-ing us to fucking death. But that is not what he tells his mother.

  He makes no mention of the skirmishes, of search and destroy

  missions, of security patrols and perimeter defense and all the things that make up the life of a grunt on the ground. He tells her other things, tells her about the cities where the members of his squad are from. Explains things to her about platoons

  and companies and battalions and regiments and divisions, tries to describe the landscape and the taste of the bad food. Tries to describe the weather. Guy down here says it’s like the Florida Everglades. Not exactly. But something like it. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to Florida. Even as he wrote that, he laughed, remembering what Whit had said. Florida Everglades my ass. Don’t look nothin’ like it. Didn’t matter. He was just making small talk with his mother.

  Today, there is a pause in the rain, the sun making an appear-

  ance after a long absence. And the air does not feel so suffocating.

  The jungle rot in his right leg seems to be healing, and he feels almost whole. He has time to reread one of the two letters that he carries with him always. He takes the letters out from where he keeps them wrapped in aluminum foil. A trick he invented.

  Keeping them dry is a game he plays.

  adam l 69

  “Why you readin’ those fuckin’ things again? They ain’t gonna

  change.”

  Camera sneers at his friend. “Fuck you, Whit.”

  “Fuck you in the ass.”

  “Fuck you in the mouth.”

  They laugh. “Wish I had me a beer.”

  “Well, you got cigarettes.”

  “And I wish I had me just one day with Sasha.”

  “One day and one night. Yeah, yeah.”

  “The things we could do.”

  “Well, all you got’s a fist.”

  “I’ll take a fist any day to your fucking letters.”

  “So why don’t you just let me fuckin’ read ’em in peace.”

  “No amount a readin’ gonna change what they say.”

  “Shut up and give me a cigarette.”

  This is the way it goes, their talk. Whit knows everything

  about the letters Camera carries—just as Camera knows every-

  thing about the letters Whit gets from his girlfriend. The war has given them to each other, these young men, one a black man who grew up in a house a spit away from the University of Chicago, the other, a white boy transplanted from Jasper, Indiana, to El Paso, Texas, whose father was once a member of the Ku Klux

  Klan before he settled down and married a good Catholic girl.

  No reason they should be friends. Except they’re in a war. And they took to each other. For no reason.

  Dear Adam,

  I know it’s been almost two months since I wrote to you.

  I’ve been trying to write you this letter for weeks and weeks.

  Every time I pick up a pen and try to put something into words, I break out crying. You know, I’ve been a big baby all my life.

  70 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e You know that. I mean, you were the boy who used to make me

  cry in first grade. In second and third and fourth grade too. You remember. So, I guess I haven’t changed all that much. Well,

  I’m engaged now, guess I told you that in my last letter. I told you then that if you had asked, things might have been different. But neither one of us was ready. And really, you didn’t have a thing for me—at least not like I had for you. And Alan, well, he had two kids and his wife’s been dead for two years and he

  was lonely. I was lonely too. Some people are like that, I guess, they got this loneliness inside them. You were never like that.

  But I don’t want to analyze you too much. Mom says I should

  go to school and get a degree and get paid for analyzing people.

  Maybe I’ll do that.

  I’m just clearing my throat here, I think. I don’t know how

  to say what I’m going to say. Your mom, she said it was okay

  if I told you. I mean, they didn’t have the heart, but everyone agreed that you have a right to know. So here it is. Jeff was

  killed in a skirmish in Vietnam on May 28. In his last let-

  ter, he said he was near a place called Dac To. I don’t know,

  but I guess that’s where he got killed. Unless his company got moved out somewhere else. His brother’s crazy mad. Wants to

  know everything about Jeff ’s death and the military isn’t too keen about giving him too much information. And he went

  down to Fort Bliss and almost got himself arrested. And the

  whole family’s kind of a mess right now. But that family never was very stable. Not like yours. I got to tell you that your mom is true blue.

  Anyway, I know how much Jeff meant to you. I mean, we all

  grew up together, me and you and Jeff and Sandy and Stacy. And when Sandy was killed in that awful accident in high school, her shit boyfriend drunk as a mean skunk, well, you remember how

  we all cried and held on to each other and went to Juárez and

  got drunk.

  And you had to keep Jeff from falling apart because he’d al-

  adam l 71

  ways had a thing for her. You were a good friend to him, Adam.

  And Stacy, well, I won’t talk about her. I won’t. I don’t forgive her and that no-good coward of a man she married. I won’t talk about that.

  I guess there’s only me and you left, so we have to take care, don’t we?

  I pray for you every day, Adam. And I know you’re going to

  make it. I know you’re going to come home and we’ll throw a

  party. And I’ll keep writing. And I’ll keep praying.

  Always, always, always,

  Evelyn

  charl ie

  Charlie knelt over his map of the city, ironing it with his hands.

  He looked at his watch, noted the time—eleven o’clock—then

  turned his attention back to the map. His father was meeting

  with Dr. Chesbrough this morning. Dr. Chesbrough’s office was

  on the corner of Mesa and Baltimore. He pointed to the place

  on the map. There. He’s right there. His mother was at the grocery store. She always shopped for groceries at the same place: the Safeway store on the corner of Kirby and Mesa. He studied the

  map. So she’s right there. Gus, he was working at Benny’s Body Shop on Texas Street, four blocks up from Campbell Street. He

  scrutinized the map. So he’s right here. And Xochil, she had come home after
she left Gus off at work and said she was going shopping downtown with Margie. They had left together on foot at

  9:30. He had heard Xochil say she was going to the Popular. The Popular was on San Antonio Street. Right there. She and Margie are right there.

  charl ie l 73

  And me, I’m right here. He pointed to the X that stood for their house. And Grandma’s asleep. And she’s right over there. He pointed to his grandmother’s bedroom.

  Putting everybody’s name on a map made him happy. If their

  names were there, they were safe.

  Someday you’re going to make a wonderful and neurotic father.

  That’s what Xochil said.

  Gus was always warning him about his obsession. You can’t map the world. They had a running argument about his thing for maps and mapping. A way of making you believe that you can own and control the fucking earth. That’s what he said. But they have mapped the world, Gus. That was always his standard response. They have, Gus, they’ve mapped the whole world. And they’ve named all the countries and all the cities and we’re there, too, Gus. We’re right there on the map.

  Sometimes he would point to the globe that he kept in his half of the room. Sometimes he would get out his world atlas, the one he’d bought with his own money, the one he kept under his bed. He

  would take it out, place it in his lap, and repeat. Look, See. They’ve mapped the whole world. Gus remained unimpressed. That’s only a representation. It’s not real. Sometimes Gus had a hard head.

  When he turned eight, his father had given him the globe as

  a birthday gift. He studied it for hours and hours. “Look, Gus, we’re right here!” his finger pointing to the corner of Texas where it met New Mexico and Mexico.

  “No,” Gus said, “We’re right here. In this room.” He pointed

  to himself and then to Charlie and then reached down and patted the floor. “We’re right here, Charlie.”

  “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “Well, you probably know what I mean too.” Gus half-smiled

  to himself and returned to reading his book.

  “And why do you always need to know where everything is on the map?”

  74 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e He never had an answer for Gus’s question.

  His argument with his brother ran through his head as he

  studied a map of Mexico. He was looking for Dolores, the vil-

  lage where the Mexican Revolution began, the birthplace, that’s what his father called it. He tried to picture the scene, the people of the village rising early as they heard the church bells calling them to gather. He pictured the priest, Father Miguel Hi-

  dalgo. He pictured the people all around him in the church. He pictured them grabbing the banner of Our Lady of Guadalupe

  and yelling, “¡Viva Mexico!” He pictured the stern priest telling the crowd that it was time to fight. He pictured the entire population of the village, all of them shouting, “¡Viva Mexico!”

  That’s how it began, the war for independence. He counted the

  years in his head: 1810 to 1910, that’s 100 years. And this is 1967, so that’s 57 more years, so that’s 157 years ago. One hundred fifty-seven years ago, Father Hidalgo yelled “¡Viva Mexico!” The grito everyone talks about.

  In the M volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, he looked up Mexico. He shook his head as he read that Father Miguel Hidalgo was hunted down and shot a year after the fight for independence started. He saw that the war lasted for eleven years. He added up all the statistics. It was estimated that 450,000 civilians lost their lives during the war for independence from Spain. He shut the encyclopedia and put it back on the shelf. He wondered how many bullets had been fired to kill 450,000 people. How

  many bullets? What kind of thought was that?

  He walked up to his globe and found that Dolores was miss-

  ing. It must have been too small, too unimportant. He was glad Gus wasn’t in the room. Villages don’t count on maps. See what I mean, Charlie? That’s what he would say.

  He found the village near Guanajuato in his atlas. He went

  back to the globe and put his finger on the globe. Here. Here it is. ¡Viva Mexico! Viva, viva, viva. He felt as if the shout lived

  charl ie l 75

  somewhere inside him and someday that shout would come out.

  He pictured the villagers following Father Hidalgo through the streets, happy and smiling.

  Maybe he would ask his father if he would take him to Do-

  lores someday. So he could see the birthplace. But he knew what his father would say. He would say, Once you have left a place, you can never go back. He’d said that a hundred times. Why couldn’t you go back? Why not? There were so many rules. Everyone had

  them. Gus had them: you can’t map the world. Xochil had them: never go into an alley by yourself. His father had them: you can never go back. His mother had them too. Only she kept her rules to herself. And him? What rules did he have?

  He looked at his globe and spun it around. ¡Viva Mexico!

  When the globe stopped spinning, Charlie walked toward his

  grandmother’s room, knocked softly, then turned the knob and

  entered. She turned toward him. He smiled and waved. “Hi,” he

  whispered.

  “Hijito de mi vida,” she said, her voice weak. But it had been weak for so long that it seemed normal. She patted the bed, motioning for him to sit, her old, old hands soft and bony.

  “We’re alone,” he said.

  “Are you afraid?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Good.” She laughed softly. “You are going to be the most

  beautiful man the world has ever known.”

  He laughed. “Sure, Grandma.”

  “Don’t be disrespectful.”

  “Gus is going to be the most beautiful man.”

  “Let me tell you something. Gustavo is nearly divine. But you

  are an angel.”

  “I don’t want to be an angel.”

  She laughed. “Amor, te adoro.” She placed her hand on his

  76 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e cheek. “I want to tell you a story. When I left Mexico, it was early in the morning. Have you heard this story?”

  “No. Dad doesn’t like to talk about that. He says Mexico

  didn’t want us.”

  “Your father is bad at forgiving.”

  “He can’t help it.”

  She smiled at him. “You’re not like him.”

  “I can’t help that either.”

  “Oh, amor, you are such an innocent.” She patted his check and let her hand drop. “I woke him up and took him in my arms.

  He was three, your father. A smart boy. Beautiful. But not as

  beautiful as you. We traveled for a few days. I don’t remember how many. It was dangerous. But your grandfather had men and

  money. He never had to shoot anyone. He bought them off. Do

  you know what that means?”

  “It means he bribed them. Gus calls it a mordida. ”

  “I’m glad you have Gustavo to tell you these things.”

  He smiled at her.

  “When we came to this country, your grandfather hated it.

  He pretended everything was fine.”

  “Gus is like that.”

  “Yes, I know. There have been a lot of good pretenders in this family.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Yes, mi vida. Very sad.”

  “Did you hate it here too?”

  “No. I pretended. I pretended to hate it. I was a pretender too.

  But I didn’t. I felt free, Charlie. I did. I didn’t have to run a house.

  I didn’t have to have servants. I could cook in my own kitchen. I learned English. I learned how to drive a car. It was a miracle for me. I never knew I was in prison until I came here.”

  “Mexico was a prison?”

  “I think it was.”
br />   charl ie l 77

  “Grandpa didn’t think that.”

  “No. He didn’t. He loved Mexico.” She shook her head. “No.

  What he loved was his idea of Mexico. And someone took that

  idea away from him.”

  “And so you had to leave?”

  “Yes. We had to leave. And I was free here, free of Mexico.”

  He pictured Father Hidalgo and the villagers. He pictured

  them shouting, proclaiming their freedom. He bit his lip. “But Mom said this country was cruel to people. She said they put the poor Mexicans in a camp and didn’t want them and called them

  names when all they were trying to do was to save themselves

  from the guns of the revolution.”

  “Your mother’s right.”

  “Why didn’t they put you and Grandpa and Dad in a camp?”

  “Oh, amor, because we had money. Because we had posi-

  tion.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “No, amor, it’s not fair. All countries are cruel. You must always remember that.”

  He thought about his globe and all his maps. “Isn’t there any

  place we can go?”

  “Someday we will do away with countries. We’ll be better off

  without them, amor.” She closed her eyes. He knew she was tired.

  He waited for a while, then started toward the door. She opened her eyes. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

  He walked back toward her, smiled, then kissed her. He didn’t

  mind the smell. “Te adoro, Abuelita,” he whispered. She liked to hear him speak Spanish. She opened her eyes and nodded. “Play

  for me,” she whispered. She placed her hand on her lips, blew

  him another kiss, then drifted back to sleep. His mother was always telling him not to tire her out. But he’d done it again. Always asking her too many questions.

  He walked back to his room and stared at his globe. He won-

  78 l t h e d a y t h e w a r c a m e dered what his globe would look like if there were no countries.

  If you didn’t have countries, then maybe you wouldn’t need maps.

  He took out his diary. And that’s what he wrote. And then he

  wrote: My grandmother is dying. I can hear it in her voice. And then he wrote: Dolores, Mexico, is not on my globe.

  He walked back toward his grandmother’s room and opened

  the door. She was mumbling in her sleep. “I’ll play now,” he whispered. He walked back down the hall and sat at the piano.