Side A ~ October 15, 1989
PATRICK, BOY, IS THIS THING ON? I can’t tell. They get smaller all the time. Let me see that. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt it. Toshiba? Japanese? Used to be that when something didn’t work, we’d say it was made in Japan. Not anymore. What? Oh, yeah. Where do you want it? Okay. Should I lean into it when I talk? No? Okay, Patrick. What do you want me to talk about for this—what do you call it? Oral history? You kids sure like those old stories. I know it’s for a grade, but admit you like this shit. Oh, sorry. I’ll watch it. Okay, which story do you want? No, not that. Too personal. What else? Really? The St. Francis Dam? Sure. Suit yourself. Don’t know what kind of grade you’ll get, but I’ll oblige because you’re my favorite grandchild. Don’t laugh. It’s true.
Okay, here goes. As I’ve told you before, not many of us know why Eurt’s mother named him Eurt. Strange name. Pronounced “yurt,” like the word “hurt” but with a “y.” Certainly not a name you could find in the Bible, nor is it a name befitting a Mexican child. Well, actually, part Mexican. Because Eurt’s mother was not Mexican but some kind of white, maybe with a little Pueblo Indian mixed in her, or so some of us figured. The viejas who knew Sarah said she came from New Mexico. She had these high cheekbones and Asian eyes and she was topped off with glistening red-blond hair that she kept in two tightly wound braids cascading like a waterfall down her back. So the viejas said she must have Pueblo blood mixed in with maybe Irish or English or maybe even Swedish or German. Too beautiful and strange for her own good, the viejas claimed. And the men. Shit. Oh, sorry. I mean “shoot.” Better?
Anyways, the men couldn’t get enough eyefuls of Sarah. All the men. White, Negro, Chinese, Mexican. All the men. But only one man, Alfonso Villa—a distant cousin of the great Pancho Villa—made any kind of impression on Sarah. Which is a shame. Because if Sarah had fallen in love with any other man, even me, she’d probably be alive today. She’d be as old as me. But you know, women live longer than men, usually. And that whole horrible incident with Eurt never would’ve happened. But you can’t rewrite history, and you never can figure when one act, one innocent and even good act, might set in motion a series of happenings that end up creating an evil result. Evil. That’s the only word for what happened.
It was May 1927 when Alfonso and I first saw Sarah. We were working the farms near the Santa Clara River, around Saugus, not too far from the San Fancisquito Canyon—Six Flags Magic Mountain is around there now, I think—and we were living in a makeshift camp set up cheap for us workers. Mostly Mexican and some Chinese. Could see the St. Francis Dam from where we slept. Smelly place. And goddamn dusty. Sorry, but there is no other way to say it. Goddamn dusty. You can edit that later, Patrick. Anyways, though I’m white, I lived for almost ten years in Chihuahua when my papá dragged me and my older sister Elsie out of Dallas away from my crazy mother. Papá just wanted to get us the hell out of the state, out of the goddamn country because Mamá was dangerous, and who knows what she would have done to her two children? See this scar here? Mamá put the edge of a hot frying pan there just to teach me not to talk back. Well, that was the last straw. So Papá saw fit to take us away.
The years passed—ten, to be exact—and Papá fashioned leather goods for a living. And me and Elsie lived just like the Mexicans. Even went to school run by priests, although we’re Protestant, at least by tradition. After we got word that Mamá died, sometime in spring of 1924, we came back north because Papá just missed this country. But he wanted something new. So we settled in California by the Santa Clara River. Poor Elsie died a year later of influenza and Papá followed her just a half year after that with cancer. There was just me. And I didn’t give a good goddamn what I did for a living as long as I made enough to eat, drink, and to buy some time with a good whore now and again. Sorry. Edit that if you want.
When Alfonso and I first saw Sarah, I’d been working the Fredrickson farm for almost three years. Seasonal work, you know. But it kept me with the right amount of money for my needs. I was nineteen and he was twenty-one or -two. Anyway, Alfonso and I had worked a long day and we were having some good beer at this little bar with this big sign over the front door that said THE TIN ROOF. It mostly catered to us farm workers but a lot of other folks came on in because it had good prices and some decent food, too. Alfonso and I had hit it off pretty good the year before because I’d lived in Chihuahua, like I said, and he had lots of relatives on his mother’s side who still lived there. My Spanish was good and his English was even better. So we were as close as we could be, not being related or anything. We were drinking to that Lindbergh fellow, who’d landed in Paris two days before. Everyone was so proud even though most of us couldn’t figure how what he did could help us in any way. All the Mexicans and Chinese toasted him. So we lifted our glasses and said To Lindy, which is what they were calling that young man. The papers said his mother was so proud that she couldn’t find words to express her joy. And President Coolidge sent some kind of congratulations through that embassy in Paris saying how the flight crowned the record of American aviation, whatever that means.
The funniest thing, though, the part I like because I remember how hot and dirty I used to get back then—even sixty years’ distance hasn’t made me forget—the newspapers said that Lindy was escorted to the embassy after landing and then fighting the crowds. He was in real need of a bath. So the American ambassador’s son took Lindy to a room at the embassy where a hot bath waited. Before dipping into the tub, Lindy drank some port and then some milk. Papers said Lindbergh relaxed for a real long time before he got out, combed his hair, put on a pair of silk pajamas with flowers all over them, a silk bathrobe, and—I like this part—Moroccan leather slippers. All this compliments of the ambassador’s son. And he gave a few newspaper interviews dressed just like that. I will never forget that story.
Patrick, need a drink or something? Diet Coke, the kind you like? Okay. Just offering.
So anyways, here it was Tuesday night and we were hot and tired and getting a little drunk and toasting Lindbergh’s landing in Paris, and in walked this woman through the front doors. Beautiful. Alfonso’s head swiveled so fast I thought it was going to come off. He had a nose, he did. Almost like radar. Beautiful woman within striking distance, Alfonso had his eyes trained on her within two seconds. Goddamn amazing skill, that. We stood at the bar which, if truth be told, was nothing more than a wide board set on bricks on either end with a white tablecloth thrown over it to make it look nicer than it was. She came in and quickly glanced around. Sarah looked in a hurry or something. Nervous. I know why now, but then all I knew was that she looked as though she had lost something and needed to find it pronto.
Well, eventually she looked over to the bar and spied me and Alfonso. I kind of pushed my hair back off my forehead and straightened up some. I was foolish for women back then. Too old now. Alfonso? Well, he was a cool character. He was handsome and he knew it. Looked like his cousin, the great Pancho Villa, except even more handsome, with smooth brown skin like a baby’s butt. Thick head of black curly hair. Neat little mustache. I’m no queer or nothing, but he was the handsomest man I’d ever seen. So Sarah eventually rested her eyes on him and it was over, I tell you. I had no chance in hell. She suddenly looked calmer, like she found what she was looking for, even though Alfonso never saw her before in his life and vice versa. Sarah sauntered on over to us, smiling now, and sidled up to Alfonso. She ordered a Coca-Cola and then just stood there waiting for the inevitable. Alfonso gave me a little wink and then turned to Sarah.
“How are you?” he asked her in almost perfect English. And she didn’t even turn to him. Can you believe it? She looked the other way at the window or something and she didn’t answer. Alfonso gave me a quick glance and smiled this little sly smile. This is going to be fun, he was thinking. I could tell he was going to play the game. Now, Sarah was wearing this very pretty Mexican dress. You know, the long white cotton ones with pretty embroidery. It was a little loose on her but she looked beautiful. Her hair was perfectly braided and it glistened in the lamplight. Other men and even the women started to notice her.
Anyways, Alfonso tried something else. He said, “Señorita, let me introduce myself and my friend. I am Alfonso Villa and this is my very fine friend, James O’Hara.” Alfonso always became real formal when he got nervous.
She turned and smiled with these white teeth and I could see Alfonso’s knees buckle just a little. Sarah’s beauty could make even him get weak.
She said, “I’m Sarah Garcia. But people call me Tootsie.” Funny, isn’t it? Tootsie! Like that goddamn movie with that little actor, what’s his name? Yeah. Hoffman. But that’s what she said. And we both smiled like idiots. So we kind of. . .what? Oh. Okay. Turn that tape over and I’ll go take a pee, if that’s okay with you, Patrick boy.
Side B ~ October 15, 1989
¡HÍJOLE! LIFE’S SIMPLE PLEASURES! At least I’m not wearing diapers like some of my buddies. Okay, where was I? Yeah, that’s right. So we all started having a nice little conversation. Sarah was asking a lot of questions, mostly directed to Alfonso but a few for me, and we answered them real fast just to make her happy and stay. She was real curious about our circumstances, you know. Money, women, stuff like that. And we talked and talked the whole evening. And then we both walked Sarah—can’t bring ourselves to call her Tootsie—to the little boardinghouse she lived at. Women only. Nice place. She said just before we left her that she cooked at this little café called Hanson’s down on the main street and that they served up a real good Sunday breakfast. Said we should come by that weekend and that we’d not be disappointed. Well, goddamn, we were there that Sunday, me mostly to keep things from getting awkward for Alfonso, which he appreciated. He’d done the same for me.
Anyways, their courtship started then. And it only lasted a month! They’d go on walks and Alfonso would buy her little things, he didn’t have much money, but he was thoughtful about what he got her. And she smiled and patted his arm and called him Al, which he thought was funny because it sounded so white, you know? Sometimes I’d tease him and call him Al too. During that time he looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen him before. What few creases he had on his forehead melted away like butter in a hot skillet whenever Sarah was around. Anyways, it all went pretty well so I wasn’t too surprised when they decided to tie the knot. They married in a civil ceremony—Sarah hated churches and Alfonso was not such a religious man—and then moved into a larger boardinghouse that took couples. Alfonso started working both the farm and any other side job he could find. He got goddamn respectable! But they seemed so happy. I couldn’t complain if I saw less and less of him. He was a family man now.
Well, things got a little strange after a bit. See, Sarah got pregnant right away, which made Alfonso real proud. But she started showing real early. Too early. And Alfonso got a little quiet, real lost in his thoughts, you know. He’d not hear whatever I was saying. But eventually, when Sarah’s belly was sticking out almost to Nevada, Alfonso seemed to accept things. After all, she was beautiful and good to him. Things could be worse.
So Sarah goes into labor one night in January 1928 during the off season when Alfonso was home a lot. I’ll never forget that night. I was having a drink at the Tin Roof and Alfonso came in looking pale. His hands shook and he was soaked through with sweat. He wore no jacket, just a thick shirt, and I yelled at him that he was going to get pneumonia or something. He walked up to the bar and asked for a brandy and he just stared straight ahead. When his drink came, he threw it back and asked for another. He was making this little strange, squeaking sound with his mouth. His teeth, I guess.
“Hombre,” I said. “¿Qué pasa?”
He threw back the second shot and asked for another. After finishing the third, he said, “The baby was born tonight.”
I smiled and hit him on the back. “Wonderful!” I yelled. “You’re a father!” But he was not smiling. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
And then he told me. Slowly at first. It was a horrible story. Are you sure you want this for your report, Patrick? Okay. Here goes.
When he came home that night from working at the McPheeter’s ranch with the horses, Sarah was already in labor. This was seven months after they married. Anyways, she was in horrible pain and Alfonso said he wanted to get someone to help but she screamed “No!” She saids it’s too late. He’d have to help her. Well, he realized there’s no way out so he went and washed up and made her as comfortable as possible. But she was in real pain and she was burning up with a fever and yelling weird things. That’s when Alfonso first heard her scream out “Eurt!” He didn’t know what she was saying. But he put a wet cloth on her forehead and tried to calm her. She kept on yelling: “Eurt! Eurt! Eurt!” And then she calmed down suddenly and the baby came without much warning at all. It turned out to be an easy delivery. Except for that one thing.
Alfonso described that baby to me real slow. A boy. Overall handsome, with lots of dark hair. Dark skin. Could’ve been Alfonso’s. But one thing wrong. His right hand. He had only one finger, the index finger. The rest of his hand was smooth and narrowed down to the wrist. Looked kind of like a wriggling snake, Alfonso said. And when the baby moved that one finger, chills went down his back. He said that when he showed the baby to Sarah, she didn’t react at all. Not a smile, not a scream. She just reached for him and put his little mouth on her breast. Alfonso stood there, bewildered, and then the baby started to play with Sarah’s other breast with that snake of a hand and Sarah didn’t mind a bit. That’s when he said he had to go get things for the baby but instead came right to the bar to talk to me.
What did I say to him? Well, what would you say? I lied. I said it didn’t matter. Plenty of kids are born without body parts and that’s just life. At least the baby had one good hand. Said Sarah was one beautiful and kind woman and he was luckier than most men. This little speech and the booze seemed to calm him down some. I told him that his wife and son needed him right then and that he should go home. He nodded slowly and had one more drink before leaving. But despite my words of comfort, I felt sick. I knew something bad was going to happen. And, sad to say, I wasn’t wrong.
As far as I know, they never baptized that baby. And Sarah insisted on naming him Eurt, that weird word she kept yelling when she was in labor. Alfonso couldn’t deny his wife anything, so he agreed. Shit! What a name! Anyways, I tried to be a good friend and visited them as much as I could. But Eurt gave me the creeps. He was a handsome boy, but that hand and that stare! He’d stare at me like he was reading my thoughts. And he never smiled. I swear to God! I mean, that is not natural. You were a happy, smiling baby when my daughter brought you into this world nineteen years ago. Most babies are. But not this one. And Alfonso saw it too. Only Sarah didn’t seem to care. She cooed and sang to that baby like nothing was wrong. She loved that baby more than Alfonso, I’d say.
In March 1928, I was staying in the men’s boardinghouse because it was the off season so I couldn’t live in the camp. Had three or four odd jobs to keep me going until picking started again in a couple of months. One night, just before I went to sleep, Alfonso came to visit. He looked sick. Pale, deep purple circles under his eyes, hair matted and greasy.
I asked him, “What’s wrong?”
And I couldn’t believe his answer: “They’re killing me. Slowly killing me.”
What the hell did that mean? So I said, “Who’s trying to kill you, Alfonso?”
And he looked at me with eyes going wild: “Sarah and Eurt. And I think it’s Eurt’s idea, too.”
Now, what could I think? Alfonso’s gone off the deep end? So I said, “Calm down, boy. No one’s trying to kill you. What are they doing to you?”
And then he closed his eyes and I suddenly realized that he looked like a skeleton. He was so thin. Finally, after a few moments of silence, like he was listening to some voice, he said, “Poison. They’re poisoning me.”
“How?” I asked, feeling more than a little shaky. “How?”
“The poison is everywhere. In my food, my drink, even in Sarah’s kisses. And Eurt is behind it!”
Well, Patrick, I didn’t know what to say except he certainly looked like he was moving from the land of the living pretty fast. I started to say something but he put his hand on my shoulder, looked deep into my eyes, and said, “I’ll kill both of them before I let them kill me.”
And I knew he meant it. So crazy or not, how could I stop him? What could I do? I had to think. So I said, “Alfonso, boy, I’ve been thinking of moving out of this town. Maybe go up to Frisco. Good jobs up there. And not so goddamn hot. Come with me. Okay, hombre?”
He looked at me for a minute. Just a minute. And he said, “Yes, I will. Let’s go tonight.”
Shit! I hadn’t really planned on going up north but I figured I’d better go with the flow, as you kids say nowadays. Because if I didn’t, my friend would commit a double murder soon. So we packed. Yep. We had very little. Alfonso put a few dollars in a handkerchief and left it by the door of their boarding room. See, he still loved Sarah. He still had a heart. And then we left. We stole a couple of horses from the ranch Alfonso worked at and started north.
After about an hour or two, we heard something awful strange. First it was just a low rumble. Couldn’t figure what it was. Then it got louder. And we turned to look over at the river, in the direction of St. Francis Dam. We could see the outline of the structure, designed and built by William Mulholland, you know. He was L.A.’s chief water engineer back then. Built that dam to hold two years’ worth of water in case an earthquake split the aqueduct. So we thought maybe this is an earthquake. But what we saw made us lose our ability to breathe at that moment. The dam started to shift and break apart and crumble. The noise of the water—two years’ worth, mind you—shook our bodies and the horses’ too. Then we saw it. A wall of water, ten stories high, going into the valley—and some toward us. I yelled, “Shit! Let’s get out of here!” Alfonso just stared at the water, frozen. I could see that he was thinking about Sarah. I yelled again and he finally seemed to wake up and hear me and we made those horses run faster than they ever had before.
We rode until morning. About five hundred people died that night, though maybe more did because a lot of the migrant farm workers weren’t accounted for. We learned later that the water washed away whole towns like Castaic and Piru and anything near the river. Sirens and phone calls tried to alert people to outrun the water. Some made it. Many did not. Three hours after the dam broke, the town of Santa Paula, which pretty much evacuated, got hit, destroying three hundred homes. And Santa Paula was forty-two miles downstream from the dam! Saugus got hit so bad. Totally destroyed. Sad stories, too. Like the fact that forty-two children at the Saugus Elementary School were washed away.
Anyways, the names of everyone who died, or at least everyone they could identify, were listed in all the California papers the next few days. Alfonso and I saw Sarah listed, or so we thought. A woman by the name of “Tootsie Garcia” was there, listed on the front page of the Los Angeles Times. We don’t know why they used her maiden name. Anyways, Eurt was not there. Maybe because he wasn’t baptized so there was no record. And Alfonso didn’t bother telling the authorities otherwise.
Well, you know the rest. Alfonso and I got up to Frisco, finally, and got pretty good work right away. He eventually married again. Nice woman. Not so pretty. But they had five kids and twelve grandkids. Me, I married your grandmother, Hanna, God bless her soul. Had my three kids and seven grandkids, including you. Alfonso died ten years ago. Cancer just like his papá. His wife followed him a year later. Heart just stopped. Her name was María. A good, honest woman, that.
Anything else? Isn’t that enough, Patrick? Well, let me think. Yes, I guess there was something else. About four years ago I was watching the CNN on that TV. And there was this story about a preacher in Bakersfield. He had this huge following. People said he could heal. Everyone who was healed swore by this man. They showed him preaching. Good-looking fellow. Looked a lot like Sarah. About sixty or so. Thick gray hair and a fine mustache. And I stared at him. Then he lifted up his left hand. It was a nice hand, long and well manicured. Then he lifted the other. And my eyes almost burst from my head. The other hand was only a finger. Like a snake. Wriggling and pointing as he preached about hell and God’s wrath. He used that hand to heal, they said. He went by the name of Veritas. Story ended and I just sat there for about ten minutes, not moving.
Well, Patrick. Good enough for your report? No, I don’t have any explanations, and I’m afraid to even try to come up with some. Sometimes, in life, there aren’t any. At least, none that you’d care to accept. You’re young still. You’ll see. Right now, while things are more black and white, I’d recommend that you just enjoy yourself. And I’ll tell you one thing: wish I’d gone to college. Sounds like you’re having some fun, interviewing old farts like me. Want a Diet Coke? Got plenty in the fridge. Okay, okay. Thought I’d be a good host. You are my favorite grandson, you know.