Chapter 16

Anmoore

25 December 1939

My dear brother and sister-in-law,

I hope all of you there are well and that you have had a happy Christmas. Ours has been the nicest in years. With Luis working at the carbon plant, Antonio at the state roads department, and Julia still part-time at the laundry, we are not struggling to survive any more. The whole atmosphere of the town seems to be almost normal, for the first time since the smelter closed back in 1927. It has been a long, hard road.

We had a house full of friends and neighbors last night for Christmas dinner. Two of the men showed up with bagpipes and two others with barrels of cider. Everybody was chattering away in Spanish, and it reminded me so much of Christmas at Las Cepas. Twenty-five I have spent here now. It does not seem possible. I miss you and home even more than usual at this time of the year.

What a relief that the civil war there is finally over, though at such a cost. Pepe and Avelino both killed along with so many others. Thank God the war did not take any more of your sons. Every Spanish family in Anmoore lost family there. The Reds here, of course, think the new government is a catastrophe, but I hope it will bring peace and stability and let people get back to their lives.

At least it seems Franco will keep Spain out of this new European mess. All this killing. It never ends. I pray every night that Roosevelt keeps his promise the Americans will stay out of it too. I could not bear my boys going off to war.

But enough of that. I am glad to hear that Manuel is doing so well already at the new smelter in San Juan. I cannot believe he is eighteen already. Tell him his Aunt Mercedes loves him, even if we never have had the chance to see each other face to face. Maybe someday, after our children all are settled with families of their own, I can convince Antonio to go back so we can die at home.

Take care of yourselves. Kisses and hugs from all of us here to all of you there.

Mercedes González Conde

* * *

Anmoore, West Virginia

June 1941

“Oh, Luis, why have you done this?” Mercedes asked, whitehaired and wrinkled like a prune at the age of fifty-six.

“The war’s been going on in Europe for more than two years now,” Luis said. “We can’t stay out of it much longer. And when we get in, I want to be there.” He had gone to Clarksburg that morning and enlisted in the navy.

“But what about your job at the carbon plant?” Mercedes said. “It’s such good work to walk away from, and as much as I hate so say it, we’ll have a hard time getting by without that income.”

“I’ve already taken care of it, mama,” Luis said. He draped a long arm over her bony shoulders. He got the job the week after he finished high school, seven years before, and Luis had a religious fervor for helping his parents and siblings. Their well-being, he believed, was his paramount responsibility. “You know I wouldn’t just abandon you,” he told Mercedes. “I talked to the shop foreman yesterday, and they’ll hire Manuel in my place. You’ll actually come out ahead, without me here to feed anymore.”

“I’d rather keep feeding you,” his mother said ruefully. She looked across the kitchen to Antonio. “Will you please talk some sense into your son?”

However, her husband sided with their oldest boy. “He’s right,” Antonio said, sitting at the table with a café con leche and cigarette. “We’ll get into this thing soon, too. He might as well be ready.”

“We.” She nearly spat the word. “I don’t see what ‘we’ have to do with it. My brother lost a son and a daughter in that stupid civil war in Spain. Now you’re ready to sacrifice Luis for the Americans?”

“I’m American, mama,” Luis said. That he was. All their children, and the children of the other immigrants in the town, had embraced the country in which they were born. Thoroughly. They spoke Spanish with their parents, but they preferred the English they spoke with their friends. Most felt no emotional connection at all to Spain. They had never been there, and no more than a handful ever would go in their lifetimes.

The new war in Europe and Asia only heightened their patriotism for the United States. “And I don’t plan on sacrificing myself,” Luis added. “That’s why I’m enlisting now. When we get in, they’ll draft everybody. I don’t want to be hauled in as cannon fodder. The recruiter told me they might even make me a non-commissioned officer before too long if I enlist now.”

“I don’t even know what a non-commissioned officer is,” Mercedes said. “But I presume it doesn’t make you magically bulletproof.”

Luis chuckled and hugged her. “You worry too much, mama. I’ll be fine.”

Julia came bounding into the kitchen. She had a tall, lanky man in tow. “Mama, papa, Luis, I want you to meet someone!”

Mercedes grimaced. Antonio slurped the last of his coffee. Luis stuck out his hand to the man.

“This is Art. Art Kelley,” Julia announced, as if they should recognize the name.

“Pleased to meet you, Art,” Luis said. He shook the man’s hand.

“That’s my brother, Luis,” Julia said, “and this is my mother, Mercedes, but you can call her Martha. Everybody who speaks English does.” Mercedes flinched at the hated name and nodded, her arms crossed across her chest. “And this is my papa, Antonio.” Her father shook Art’s hand without getting up from his chair. “Art and I met last week,” Julia said. She was nearly vibrating with delight. “I’m just crazy about him, and I couldn’t wait for you to meet him.”

“Where did you meet?” Mercedes asked.

“Oh, that’s not important,” Julia said, batting a hand dismissively and smiling wildly at Art.

“So, at the roadhouse, then,” Mercedes growled. Julia had been spending most of her evenings for several months in the dark little bar at the edge of Anmoore on the road to Clarksburg.

“Why do you always have to be such a killjoy?” Julia shouted. Her mood required little stimulus to whip from one extreme to the other. “You criticize every single thing I do!”

Mercedes did not respond.

“Your brother has a bit of news himself,” Antonio said in Spanish.

“Yes, um,” Luis said, in English, “I enlisted in the navy this morning.” He looked at Mercedes, and then back to Julia and Art, and added in Spanish: “I’ll leave in a week for training.”

“In a week!” Mercedes exclaimed. It had not occurred to her that he would depart so soon.

“The navy!” Julia cried gleefully. “You’ll look like a movie star in that white uniform!”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Mercedes said. She did not understand her daughter’s comment, but her joyful tone was enough. She left the kitchen without an additional word to anyone.

“Well, Art and I are going to Florida tomorrow!” Julia announced. “He has a car and some friends who live near Miami, and we’re going to the beach for a month!”

Luis and Antonio knew how this story would end. “Ah, nice, Julia,” Luis said unenthusiastically. “That’ll be quite a trip. Good to meet you, Art,” he added, shaking the man’s hand again. “I have some things to do, if you’ll excuse me.” Luis left the kitchen. Antonio stood, nodded at Art, and followed Luis out of the house.

“That’s my family,” Julia said to Art Kelley. “Part of it anyway. I have two other brothers and a little sister.”

“I look forward to meeting them. I think,” Art said. He had expected a warmer welcome.

“They’ll loosen up,” Julia assured him. “Now, speaking of loosening up” she said, “I could use a drink. How about you?”

Julia and Art drove to the roadhouse and began another beery afternoon which would stretch late into the night.

* * *

January 1942

Julia, Pilar and Mercedes were five years older, but otherwise the scene was the same. Julia was in labor on her parents’ bed. Pilar held her hand. Mercedes angrily assisted the birth.

“It’s a girl,” Mercedes said flatly. “I’m not raising this one for you.”

“I’d already decided, when Art left, that I’m giving it up for adoption,” Julia snapped.

It had been Julia’s longest relationship, even if it was often a blur of beer and whisky shots. Art always was non-committal about marriage, but he never ruled it out entirely. He occasionally said he loved her, unprompted. For Julia, that almost was as good as a proposal.

Then Pearl Harbor came. Art and nearly every other man under thirty in the town immediately volunteered for the fight. Julia’s brothers Manuel and Antonio followed Luis into the navy. Art chose the army instead.

He would not marry Julia before he left for basic training, as she hoped and pleaded, but Art was infuriated by her decision not to keep the baby. She had told him, at the roadhouse, at the end of his threeday leave before shipping out to England.

“But it’s my baby, too,” he shouted as they stood at the crowded bar in the roadhouse. “You can’t just give it away without my permission.”

“If you won’t marry me, I can do whatever I want with it,” Julia shouted back.

“Hey, you two,” the bartender yelled from the other end of the bar. “Pipe down or take it outside. Nobody wants to listen to your shit.”

“Sorry, Bill,” Art said to the bartender. He turned back to Julia. “If you do this,” he said, “we’re finished. I mean it, Julia.”

“That’s your choice, not mine,” she said, her voice full of spite. “You’re not leaving me a choice,” he said through clenched teeth. “What can I do?” Julia asked. She drained off the last of her beer.

“You won’t marry me. You’re running off to the war with the rest of the stupid men. I’m supposed to raise this kid on my own?”

“There will be lots of women on their own with their kids,” Art said. “For Christ’s sake, Julia, it’s a world war. Why don’t you try not to be so self-centered for once.”

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself,” Julia shouted. “Don’t worry, Bill,” she added quickly to the bartender, who was glaring again in their direction. “I’m leaving.” She took some coins from her purse and slammed them on the bar. “And give the soldier here a beer and a bump on me.”

Halfway home, Julia sat down on the curb and bawled. It was so unfair. She wanted so little, just a man to love her and to want a home and family with her. She did not even care if they had a house; a little apartment in Clarksburg would suffice. He simply needed to care about her. Was that so much to ask? Was she so unlovable and difficult that no man could give her such a basic, normal thing?

After she cried out the pain to a tolerable level, Julia stood up from the curb. She wiped her face dry with her sleeve and straightened her skirt. “Well, fuck him, then,” she said into the night. “Fuck them all.” She fumbled around in her handbag for her pack of Camels, lit one, and marched off up the street toward her parents’ house. If no man would give her what she so desired, she decided, she would just take what they were willing to give, enjoy herself as much as possible, and keep her heart to herself. Nobody wanted it anyway, it seemed.