“Ahhh!” A gasp, a sigh. Then the priest was silent.
So appalled that he was speechless? Amalia waited—and she wondered whether it was sinful to despise Angel even more after her confession, because she did.
“Bless you.” The small door slid closed abruptly.
Amalia still waited, kneeling in the booth. She made a sign of the cross. She waited longer. Nothing more? No penance? She left the confessional.
Had it really happened?
In the large church, she felt bewildered, lost, adrift, desolate. She had wanted to speak about the silver cross—it had been smoke!—her sadness, all that Angel’s words had stirred, were stirring, and instead—
Had it really happened? Had the priest dared to use her confession to—
She went to the shrine of Our Lady. She knelt, said some prayers, in a penance of her own, to confirm to herself that, whatever had occurred in that booth, she had confessed. Her feelings tangled into a choking knot of indignation, outrage, new anger.
“Please—”
She startled herself. She had spoken that word aloud to the Miraculous Mother. But what had she been about to say?
She walked out of the church.
Outside, she looked at the stains of blood the old woman had left on the concrete steps. The blood had caked brown, flecking into dusty dirt. Amalia looked away, and her eyes moved up, into the sky. Streaks of clouds had appeared, very thin, wisps, only that, and only in one distant edge of the sky, just there.
Amalia touched her heart. Somewhere in her being there was a hidden pain. Had she felt it before? Yes, but she had never tried to locate it, had not needed to locate it. Now—
Suddenly she became aware of a new stillness within the day, as if everything had stopped. All seemed about to become clear to her!
The moment passed. Perhaps it had not existed. What was there to be clarified? The sensation had occurred only because she had been so pensive that she had momentarily not noticed even the loud sounds of Saturday-afternoon traffic in Hollywood.
10
LAST NIGHT, when she had stood, fully clothed and about to leave, stood at the door of Angel’s room—that coyote, that doubly despised man!—he had aimed lazily spoken words at her as he leaned—still glaringly naked—against the refrigerator, with the beer he had just opened. “A woman like you—”
Why had she stopped? Why hadn’t she rushed out? Why had she asked him: “What do you mean, a woman like me?” … As she paused outside the church on Sunset Boulevard now, Amalia asked herself that. The incident in the confessional—had the priest dared to use her humiliation?—was forcing out the avoided memory of what had occurred at the end of last night’s encounter with Angel.
“A woman like you—”
“What do you mean, a woman like me?”
“I mean an old woman, a vieja like you,” he said. “A vieja like you should be grateful that a man like me even looks at her.”
Amalia had to lean for support against the door. She felt as if she had been struck, not because she was sensitive about her age—she wasn’t—and not only because she had felt just moments earlier like a young girl—no, it was that single word, “grateful,” that took her breath away then. It echoed back into every moment of her life—she knew that only now as she walked down the steps of the church, where the beata’s bloody prints were disappearing into the concrete. Grateful! For humiliation?
That remembered word was so disturbing that she momentarily welcomed two distractions occurring simultaneously: A new dark blue car had just driven up before the church to let out a well-]dressed blonde woman with a boy and a girl; and across the street, with the no longer surprising suddenness of such now daily scenes, a squad car’s bullhorn was demanding that an old, large car halt and that the occupants get out with their hands over their heads.
At the same time that Amalia thought she recognized the blonde woman and her children, she saw, across the street, that the two cops, one black, had already flanked two mustached Mexican men, who had exited from the large car, loudly protesting being stopped “for no reason … not speeding … doing nothing.”
Nearer her, Amalia heard the driver of the paused navy blue car tell the blonde woman that he would go park and then join her. Now Amalia recognized the family, from television news. He was a politico, a powerful city politician who constantly proclaimed his “Chicano heritage” and wept openly on American holidays while holding his hand over his heart. Whether his wife was Mexican or not, her hair was bleached, and their children were chattering in English. My children learned Spanish and English, I saw to it, Amalia thought—and she looked across the street.
One of the two mustached Mexican men tried to run. He was shoved to the ground by the white cop, who drew his gun as he pressed his knee against the man’s back.
Gathering her noisy children, the politico’s wife retreated to the top of the steps. She waited near the church door, adjusting a lacy scarf over her head. Then she grasped her fidgeting children, firmly, one with each hand.
Across the street the second mustached man had thrown up his hands in surrender, still shouting his protests for having been stopped “for no reason … nothing, nothing.” The indignation was so forceful that Amalia prepared to feel outrage at yet another violent, senseless encounter between Mexicans and cops. At the same time, she was aware of the politico walking toward the church, a dapper, well-dressed man with an unfocused smile on his face. He nodded at her without seeing her.
She looked away from him, across the street.
The man pushed to the ground was being handcuffed. Ordered to, the other opened the trunk of the old car.
The politico looked across the street to the altercation occurring. He frowned. From the church door, his wife called out to him: “Hurry up, pleased
The cop shouted loud words into the open trunk of the car. Out of it, cramped from painful hiding, a pregnant woman and a man emerged. They were very dark brown. The woman was sobbing, rubbing her stomach. The man rushed loud, urgent words at the cops: “—nuestra familia está aquí, en Fresno, les pagamos mucho dinero a estos hombres para que nos trajeran aquí, a Fresno—” From his pocket he took out a crumpled piece of paper. “A esta directión. Miren, miren, aquń en Fresno.”
They had paid the two Mexican men a lot of money to unite them with their family, at the address on the piece of paper, “here in Fresno,” the man kept repeating. The two men had told them they would be there in fifteen minutes. Was this Fresno? Was this Fresno? The man kept looking about as if expecting his family to appear.
Amalia’s anger shifted in confusion. Two Mexican men she had felt sympathy for had taken the money of the illegal man and woman. They had intended to abandon them in the midst of the huge city they told them was Fresno, which was hours away…. Amalia turned away to see the politico walk quickly up the steps of the church.
On the street an unmarked car joined the squad car. Two tall men in plain suits handcuffed the pregnant woman and the man—suddenly terrified, trapped. The two new men pushed the man and woman and the two Mexican men—together—into the back of the unmarked car, separated from the front by a black screen of thick mesh wire.
With his wife and children, the politico entered the church.
The unmarked car drove away The squad car made a sudden U-turn on the street.
Amalia walked away from the church, along the blocks, past tall palm trees unbudging in the static afternoon. She would no longer avoid going back home to face Raynaldo, she decided suddenly—and he would be back, don’t doubt it; it was Saturday, and on Saturdays she often cooked his favorite chiles rellenos, fat with cheese and spicy batter. Had she been avoiding going back home? Confront Raynaldo about what exactly? Whatever! She would confront Gloria about her lies. What lies? And Juan about—? No matter! She would go home.
Near one of the hundreds of minimalls that pock Los Angeles with chromy colors, an aggressively plain woman in her thirties broke away from a small group
of men and women like her, and she advanced purposefully on Amalia. Another born-again!—Amalia was about to dodge. The woman intercepted her, holding a long pad of paper clipped to a board. Amalia heard others in the group asking passersby if they were qualified to vote.
“—sign a petition for cleaning up the air?”
“What?” Amalia asked the woman who held the pad before her.
“A petition to require cars—”
“I don’t have a car.”
“For clean air,” the woman persisted. “Chemicals in—”
“What?”
“Clean air.” The woman took three deep breaths, gasped, simulating a coughing fit, which she terminated abruptly. “Aire lam-pio—” she tried in Spanish.
“I understand English,” Amalia said. “I am a Mexican-American. And you mean ‘limpio,’ not ‘lampio.’”
“Oh, well. Do you realize that automobile exhausts account for—?”
“Feed the hungry,” Amalia told her. Rosario’s voice had tried to order her confusion at what the woman wanted done. Who didn’t want clean air?
The woman turned to one of her male companions, who was about to accost a Mexican man waving him impatiently away. “Didn’t I tell you they don’t understand their own oppression?”
“It’s the same in India,” the man said.
Amalia turned into one of the prettier side streets off Sunset. Increasingly, she chose routes that had fewer blights, the most flowers; when she was in a hurry and had to consider only distance, she would try not to notice certain sights, like the graffiti-smirched wall she had sought out earlier and would avoid now.
CONSULTAS
Solve All Your Problems! Learn What
You Need to Know! Hear What You Need to Hear!
Expert Spiritual and Worldly Guidance!
No Appointment Needed!
WE ARE OF YOUR FAITH!
Amalia halted before the small house on which that sign was lettered on a board pressed against the window. Like others in the neighborhood, this house was holding on, huddling from the nearing contamination that begins with weeds. It, too, was caged within iron bars. Amalia often paused before the house of this old man and woman, sometimes kept one of the leaflets they periodically left in mailboxes. Some people in the neighborhood—especially the younger ones—called them brujos. Others referred to them more respectfully as “espiritualistas” or “curanderos” There were almost always some of these “spiritualists with healing powers” in “Hispanic” neighborhoods. They provided “limpias” spiritual cleansings, thwarted “eI mal de ojo” the evil eye—but some extended their “powers” into more mundane matters, offering “consultas” on a range of problems.
Although this old man and woman proclaimed being of “your faith”—and in this neighborhood that had to mean Catholics or liars—the latter consideration had kept Amalia away, because she most certainly was not a supersticiosa, although only God could tell you why not, considering that Teresa had consulted curanderos almost as often as she went to Mass. Yes, and once she claimed a spirit had come to her in a dream to inform her that treasure was buried under their tenement apartment. That was when she summoned an ancient old man, who squeezed under the crawl space, chanting prayers, and then emerged asserting that, yes, there was treasure buried there, guarded by one benign spirit, whom they must pray to, and an evil one, whom they must watch out for. Teresa and her husband dug into the moist dirt and found only more garbage.
As Amalia stood pondering the sign that promised to tell her everything she needed to hear, a car neared her; but she did not start because she had heard happy voices. She turned, and she saw a convertible with four teenagers, two girls, two boys, all Anglos, all sparkling, so right in that certain way she had come to recognize from the grown children of well-off families she had worked for. Of course they would all be wearing shorts, they always did, the moment the weather turned slightly warm.
“Do you know where Mariposa Street is, please, ma’am?” one of the girls asked her. The car had stopped by the curb.
Amalia knew where that street was. But she did not answer. She merely looked at them in their car.
One of the young men repeated, “Ma’am, would you please tell us where—?”
Amalia turned her back to them.
“She doesn’t want to speak to us,” the girl said in surprise.
The car drove away.
Why had she done that?—they had been so courteous. She knew the answer. When she had seen them, she had tried to place Gloria among them, but she had not been able to fit her there. No, they would not have welcomed her daughter, with her heavy makeup and teased hair, her shiny boots. Amalia touched the ruffle on her own dress. Well, she did know this: None of them could have held a candle to her beautiful Gloria.
She walked up the two steps to the door of the house of consultas. She needed to talk. She would have preferred Rosario or a priest, who wouldn’t? But where was Rosario? And the priest had—She felt a resurgence of indignation. She rang the bell. Immediately she wondered: What do I need advice about? The whole day.
A small peep-door opened. An eye looked out.
If they’re clairvoyant, can’t they see—? Amalia stopped her readied skepticism. After all, everything had conventions. The door opened.
There stood Ti’ita! “Ti’ita!” Amalia said aloud.
Of course it wasn’t really the wise old woman from “Camino al Sueño.” It was only that the woman before her looked so much like her, tiny, old, gnarled, with an all-knowing faint smile that glowed even out of the wrinkles of her aged face—troubled and caring and loving, all at the same time. Of course she would be wise, looking like that, with ancient and new wisdom. She wore a plain gray dress and a large gleamy crucifix about her neck. Just like Ti’ita.
The benign old face was capable of a slight frown. “What did you call me?” the woman asked Amalia.
“A name of someone I trusted a long time ago, very wise. I turned to her when a man out of my past threatened to return.” Amalia found a suitable adjustment.
“Ghosts,” the old woman muttered wisely, “are not always dead.”
Amalia understood that.
“I am Esmeralda Morales—Doãa Esmeralda. And this is Rogelio Morales.—Don Rogelio.” The old woman was introducing an old man who had materialized out of the dusky light of the house.
Her husband? Her brother? Amalia wondered.
He was almost as tiny, a male version of Doña Esmeralda. He, too, wore a huge crucifix. He had grayish-blue cataracts, so that he seemed to be looking everywhere at once.
“I’m Amalia Gómez, I live nearby—”
“We know.”
“We know.”
Well, there was no problem with knowing that, anyone could know that. Amalia peered into the small living room. Within the murkiness, she saw a small altar, with two crucifixes and what might be several holy amulets hanging over them, and—this relieved her anxieties about being here—a gloriously colored picture of the Blessed Mother, her cape sprinkled with silver beads.
“Please … come into our humble home,” Don Rogelio said.
In an oddly deep voice for such a tiny old man, Amalia thought. She walked in.
Near the altar, votive candles glowed in red and yellow jars. The scent of incense, sweet, just like in church during Mass, wafted through the air.
The house of devout Catholics, Amalia was sure—but what was that over there? Jars that looked like those from the botanas, the charm-and-magical-herb stores in East Los Angeles…. And those strange feathers on the wall? That clay face under them? An Aztec God? And … my God!… was that a chicken claw?… Well, what was wrong with a little decoration?
Still, Amalia thought she should announce quickly: “I am a Catholic, a good Catholic.”
Doña Esmeralda’s eyes misted over with hurt. She bowed her head. So did the old man. Then the old woman touched Amalia’s hand, instantly forgiving, extending boundless understanding. “We are of
your faith,” she affirmed. “Tell her, Padre Rogelio.”
“But what else, m’ija?! The old man touched his crucifix.
Padre? Reverend father? The old woman hadn’t called him that until now, had she? Nothing serious. There were retired priests. But he had better be her brother…. Had she only now noticed it or had he just put it on when her eyes had returned to the chicken claw?—the man was now wearing a white collar about his neck, a frayed white collar. “I didn’t mean to offend,” Amalia allowed an apology, because as always she was pleased to be called “m’ija.”
“Come into the cooler part of the room,” Doña Esmeralda invited. “The shade of a serene tree blesses our humble home with coolness.”
“And it’s a particular blessing on this uncommonly hot day,” finished Don Rogelio—Padre Rogelio.
If they mentioned earthquake weather—Amalia thought it opportune to say: “I am not a supersticiosa, like the women at a sewing place I used to work in. When someone made a prediction of an earthquake, they ran out.” Just in case they could read her thoughts through her eyes, she looked down. “I did not run out, nor did my friend Rosario.”
Padre Rogelio shook his head. “False prophets abound. Our Lord and His Holy Church warn us.”
The old woman nodded sagely for a long time.
Amalia saw on a wall a picture of Our Lord in festive robes. But she also saw that a twisted jar under it was filled with colored water.
Curtains almost completely drawn created the room’s duskiness. The branches of the sheltering tree just outside filtered out the bright afternoon light.
They sat on three chairs about a small table covered with a colorful serape—Amalia welcomed that. Now she waited nervously while two pairs of aged eyes focused on her.
Then the man rose, stood behind her. She felt him fanning the air. “What is he doing?” she asked the woman.
“Cleansing the air of intrusive elements, mija,” Doña Esmeralda said tolerantly. “So that we may see into your problems clearly.” With that she, too, rose, and reached for a goblet. She poured a little of the dyed liquid from the jar and brought it to Amalia.