It was hard for Ernesto to concentrate on Ms. Hunt’s class. He kept going over his choices, and all of them were bad. He could join the Zapatistas and explain to Naomi that he was doing what his conscience told him. She would respect that. He was sure of it. But eventually word would get back to Felix Martinez, and he’d be outraged. Naomi was already struggling in that family. If Ernesto made an enemy of her father, she would be in even more trouble.
Felix Martinez was an unforgiving man. He had had no contact with his two older sons, Orlando and Manny, since he threw them out of the house three years ago. He even denied his wife contact with them. Ernesto had secretly arranged for Mrs. Martinez to meet with them at a restaurant a few weeks ago. Mr. Martinez never knew, but the get-together was a huge blessing to Linda Martinez and Naomi. Naomi held out a hope that someday her father would relent and forgive his sons. But Ernesto wasn’t sure. Nor was he sure that Felix Martinez would ever forgive him if he became a Zapatista.
Felix Martinez had the power to make Naomi and Ernesto miserable if he wanted to. And in the midst of it all was Clay Aguirre. He was stalking his prey like a predator and waiting for the opportunity to make his move.
Usually Ernesto could take a problem like this to his father and get some advice. But this time he didn’t want to do that. He already knew what Luis Sandoval would say.
“Go with your conscience mi hijo,” would be Dad’s words. “Don’t make your decision just to avoid difficulties. Most right choices are difficult. If good people made choices only for what was easy and trouble free, then few people would have the courage to do what was right.”
Ernesto figured that would mean joining the Zapatistas, and he wasn’t ready to do that. He thought he could still walk a tightrope and avoid arousing Felix Martinez’s wrath.
Sometimes Ernesto drove home from school, but usually he walked or jogged. Every mile he ran made him stronger for track, and he enjoyed running. It cleared his mind in a way that few things did.
As he ran, Ernesto usually didn’t look left or right. He just focused on the run. But this afternoon he noticed a building on Washington Street. It was a neat little white stucco building with a stone monument out front. On the monument was a bronze plate. The American flag flew from the building.
Ernesto stopped, recognizing Veterans Hall. The veterans organization had been at work for fifty years, providing help and fellowship for those returning from many wars—World Wars I and II, Korea, Vietnam, and the wars in the Middle East. When Ernesto was just a small boy living with his parents in Los Angeles, the vets would come down to the barrio often to visit his father’s parents and siblings. Abuelo Luis, Lena’s husband, was a veteran of the Vietnam War. That war was just a name in the Chavez students’ history books, but it meant a lot to men of Abuelo Luis’s generation. Ernesto remembered coming to this small building with his father and grandfather for beans, rice, tortillas, fideo, and albóndigas.
For some reason, Ernesto now looked more closely at the bronze nameplate than he had ever looked before. Listed on it were the names of the locals who had lost their lives in the wars America had fought. A lot of them were Latino. The nameplate had empty spaces at the end. But it was filling up with the names of local men and women from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Some of the names were Latino too.
Ernesto found the name of the first young man who left the barrio to fight in Vietnam and did not return alive. Nicolo Sena died in Vietnam in 1968. He was nineteen years old, only three years older than Ernesto was now. Because Nicolo was the first Mexican-American soldier from the area to die in Vietnam, Councilman Maynard named the scholarship in his honor.
Ernesto stood there in the warm autumn air, looking at the name. He pictured Nicolo coming home in one of those caskets draped with the American flag. On the day of his burial, he visualized the pallbearers folding the flag carefully and handing it to his parents. He was born in 1949, and he died in 1968. If he were alive today, Ernesto thought, he would be one of the silver-haired veterans coming here for fellowship. His parents were probably long dead by now, but they would surely have lived long enough to be proud that a scholarship had been named for their son. Ernesto wondered whether Nicolo had brothers or sisters. Did they come here to look at the bronze plate and to remember their brother who never grew old?
Ernesto felt strange standing there and looking at the boy’s name. Thinking about a young man he never knew and would never know.
“Anything I can do to help you?” a voice came from behind Ernesto. The man had come up without Ernesto seeing him. The man had white hair and a lined face.
“Uh no, thanks. I was just looking at this—” He didn’t know how to describe it.
“Honor roll,” the man offered. “It’s an honor roll for the war dead. Boys from the barrio who died in the wars. We got a young lady’s name there now too. She was the first woman from the barrio to die in Afghanistan. Marguerite Gutierrez. Right there near the bottom. Died about six months after she got there. IED.”
“My dad served in Iraq, but he came home safely. Just a scar,” Ernesto commented.
“Anyone special you’re looking for, son?” the man asked with a smile.
“Nicolo Sena,” Ernesto replied. “I was looking for him, but I found him. He was the first to die in Vietnam. They named that scholarship for him, huh? My dad got to go to college and become a teacher with the help of that scholarship. It made a difference in my family’s life. I hope there’s somebody from the Sena family still alive to remember Nicolo and, you know, to be proud.”
“He was my big brother,” the man said. He held out his hand. “I’m Felipe Sena. I’m one of the guys in charge of the post here. I went to Nam too, but I made it home. By the time I went, the casualties were going down. Nicolo died in the Tet Offensive. Young fella like you probably never heard of the Tet Offensive. Long time ago.”
Ernesto grasped the man’s hand. “I’m Ernesto Sandoval. Like I said, my father, Luis Sandoval, he studied to be a teacher with the scholarship named for your brother. And now he teaches history at Chavez High where I go.”
“Is that right?” the man exclaimed. “Well, I’m glad to meet you, Ernesto. There’s talk of the scholarship being renewed. That would be a wonderful thing. I don’t know if your father belongs to the post here. I don’t recollect the name. A lot of the younger men don’t belong. Most of the guys we got coming here are silver foxes like me.” He chuckled and added, “You tell your father to drop in some night when we’re serving chicken enchiladas. He should bring the whole family.”
“I’ll tell him, thanks,” Ernesto responded, then he jogged on.
Ernesto thought Mr. Sena was a nice guy. Ernesto had no doubt whom the man would be supporting in the upcoming council election. But Ernesto didn’t want to think about the election now. He wanted to think of anything but that.
That evening, Ernesto got a call on his cell phone. “Hey Ernie, Orlando here.” It was Orlando Martinez, Felix’s eldest son. He was a singer-musician with the Oscar Perez band in Los Angeles. Three years ago, when Felix Martinez struck his wife, Orlando decked him. The father could not forgive his son for that. He threw him out of the house that night.
“Hey Orlando, how’s it going?” Ernesto asked.
“Great,” Orlando replied. “We’re busy. We did a gig in Frisco, and we got one in Vegas next month.” He laughed happily. “Reason I called is, we’re coming down to the barrio next week to do a benefit concert for Emilio Ibarra’s campaign. We’ll be performing at Hortencia’s tamale place. That’ll be next Friday, a week from tomorrow. We hit there in the afternoon, play, and then leave right after the show. You know how hot Oscar is for that chick. Well, she’s going all out, opening the patio. She’s even using the neighbor’s property for the overflow. It’d be great if you could bring Mama and Naomi. Can you sneak them out without my father knowing?”
Ernesto got numb. He didn’t respond.
“We gotta get that stooge, Esposito, out of there man,” Orlando continued. “Ibarra is a firecracker. He’ll do great things for the barrio. Esposito been hanging around for almost ten years, and he’s like rotten fruit. He needs to go. So what do you think?”
“Orlando, you gotta know that—” Ernesto began to say.
“Yeah, Esposito is my father’s cousin,” Orlando finished the sentence for Ernesto. “And Dad thinks he’s the best thing since guacamole. They’re tight as the belt on a fat man. When I was living with my parents, Esposito would come over for dinner a lot. My father idolized him. He was the man. I got a lot of disagreements with my father, but at least he’s a hardworking man. This Esposito don’t get out of his chair unless it’s to answer the call of nature.”
“Your father wouldn’t like it if he knew his wife and daughter were at an Ibarra rally, dude,” Ernesto advised.
“Yeah,” Orlando concurred. “Esposito gets Dad tickets to the playoff football games. When the big shots from Washington come to town, Dad gets to mingle with them because of his cousin. Dad even got his picture taken with the president of the United States once, courtesy of Esposito. I think my father is prouder of that picture than he is of any of us kids in our graduation gowns. Monte Esposito takes care of his cronies, all right. But the rest of the people can go to hell for all he cares.”
Ernesto was still silent, feeling the sharp thorns of his dilemma starting to poke him. “We gotta get him out of there man,” Orlando went on. “Ibarra, he’s just an ordinary working man with a lot of natural savvy. He helped run some of the federal programs in the barrio for the local congressman. Ibarra could do a bang-up job for the people. So, listen, check with Mom and Naomi and see what you can do. The concert is next Friday night.”
“I’ll uh . . . talk to them,” Ernesto finally said. He and Orlando talked about the details of the meeting and then ended the call.
Ernesto waited until later in the afternoon that day to bring up the subject with Naomi. That was when Felix Martinez hung out at the pool hall with his friends. As he drove Naomi home from school, he told her about the benefit concert. “Orlando is really excited about it, and he’d love for you and your mom to come,” Ernesto concluded.
“Ohhhh,” Naomi sighed. “Mom would be so happy to see Orlando again. The last time she got to see him, she didn’t stop talking to me about it for days. I would love to see my brother too and to see him perform with the band. That would be so cool.”
“Naomi,” Ernesto suggested, “on Friday night we could do what we did before. Remember? You and your mom met Orlando and Manny at the restaurant. We could say you were going to see her sister.”
Naomi frowned. “Oh Ernie, everybody from the barrio will be there. It’d get back to Dad that we were at the Zapatista concert for Mr. Ibarra. That would be such a betrayal in Dad’s mind. I mean, his own wife and daughter at a fund-raiser for a guy who’s trying to unseat his cousin Monte. The dinner that time was different. It was secret, and nobody saw us.”
“Naomi, this whole thing is making me sick,” Ernesto confessed in frustration. “Things don’t have to be this way. That governor California had, the guy from Austria, the action hero. He was a big Republican, and his wife was a Democrat. And they got along fine. I mean it’s only politics, stupid politics. Your mom and you too, you both deserve to see your family.”
Naomi gave Ernesto a dark look. “Ernie, it’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to live with my dad. He and Monte have been friends since first grade. Mom told me they’d tear around the barrio together in a hot rod they built. Dad’s closer to him than almost anybody. When he got on the city council, Dad went nuts with pride. He’s Dad’s claim to fame. I guess. I mean, my father hasn’t got much to brag about. But he’s the cousin of Councilman Monte Esposito. That’s big stuff.”
“Well, let’s talk to your mom at least,” Ernesto suggested as they neared the house on Bluebird Street.
Ernesto and Naomi went in the house and told Linda Martinez that Orlando was coming to town next Friday night. She lit up like a Christmas tree. She clamped her hands to her cheeks, and her face turned rosy. “Oh! Mi hijo! I miss him so much. El primogénito! How happy I was when he came into the world. How I would love to see him!”
“Mom,” Naomi explained, “Orlando is performing with the Oscar Perez band at Hortencia’s a week from tomorrow. But it’s a benefit for Emilio Ibarra’s campaign. It’s a fund-raiser for him. Orlando is coming in the afternoon, and he’s returning with the band that night.”
A look of disappointment and anguish took the joy from Linda Martinez’s face. Her eyes turned fearful. Like a dark, frightening beast, the fear crawled through her eyes, dimming their brightness and anticipation. “Oh, Felix would be outraged if Naomi and I went to a fund-raiser for Mr. Ibarra. He hates Emilio Ibarra. He thunders around the house cursing the man as an upstart who wants to take power from his wonderful cousin.”
Mrs. Martinez stared past her daughter and Ernesto. She seemed to be weighing the consequences of seeing her son. “If we went to the concert,” she declared, “it would be like stabbing Felix in the back. He’d be so angry. I cannot even imagine it. And he would find out because of all the people there. Someone would tell him.” Tears sparkled in the woman’s eyes. “Oh, but I would so love to see my son. It breaks my heart that he will be here in the barrio and I cannot see him.”
Ernesto felt really sorry for Naomi’s mother. It made him so angry that this good woman had to live in fear of her husband. But he could do nothing to help her. Still, Ernesto searched his mind for a solution to this specific problem.
“I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Martinez,” Ernesto suggested. “I’ll call Orlando and find out when he’s getting into town. Maybe he’d have a little time to meet us somewhere private before he goes to Hortencia’s. Like maybe we can grab twenty minutes and go with him to get coffee or something. Just the four of us. I’m sure Orlando would go along with that. He wants to see you guys as much as you want to see him. He misses his family.”
Mrs. Martinez smiled. “Oh Ernie, you are just the sweetest boy. Maria can be so proud of you. Maria and your father have raised a good son, one with a compassionate heart.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Ernesto promised.
Mrs. Martinez went into the kitchen to start dinner. Ernesto and Naomi went into the backyard of the Martinez home and sat on the stone bench. Ernesto looked at the cute little elves cavorting in the whimsical garden and sitting on plastic mushrooms. Naomi told him that her father had designed this lovely place. That such a harsh man had this side to his nature seemed impossible.
“That was so incredibly thoughtful of you, Ernie,” Naomi said. “Trying to arrange a way for us to meet with my brother. I just can’t get over how nice you are.”
“Oh, don’t go overboard,” Ernesto protested. “I just feel so sorry for your mom. And you too. Orlando and Manny are good guys. It’s not fair that the family has to be kept apart like this. Your father makes such a big deal about his friendship with his cousin. But what about his own boys?”
“I know,” Naomi agreed sadly. “It would be great if our stupid hearts didn’t get involved. If only we could just be totally logical, sort of like that guy who was in the Star Trek movies—Spock. I mean, logically, I know that my dad is mean and unreasonable. I know that Mom should have taken us and left him a long time ago. And I know now we should go off by ourselves, Mom and me and Zack. We should just let Dad stew in his own juice. We’d all get along fine. Orlando and Manny could hang with us anytime. And it’d be all good. No more dark secrets. No more worrying about Dad exploding in one of his rages when he finds something out.”
Naomi stared at the elves for a few seconds. “But the thought of my father, abandoned, rejected. No family, I just can’t deal with it. It tears me apart. Mom can’t do it either. We love him. He’s taken care of us all these years, and we . . . love him. Our lousy, stupid hearts get in the way.”
Ernesto put his arms around Naomi’s shoulders. “No, don’t say that. You’re talking about the best part of being human—having a heart, having compassion. If we just operated on logic, we’d be computers. Who wants to be a computer?”
“The terrible part of it is,” Naomi went on, “I don’t think it will ever end. I had an uncle once, Uncle Leon. He was dad’s brother, and he was just like Dad. He was estranged from half his family too. I remember when Uncle Leon was dying. He wouldn’t let his oldest daughter into the room at all. She stood crying out in the hall at the hospital. She’d defied her father. She married a boy he didn’t approve of, and he cut her off.”
Naomi shook her head in exasperation. “Everybody tried to reconcile them when Uncle Leon was dying. Padre Benito tried, and even some of the nurses tried. But Uncle Leon would never forgive his daughter. I’ll never forget being in the hospital with my parents. I was fourteen. My cousin was screaming when her father died without forgiving her. She was sure they would have one moment together before . . .”
Tears welled in Naomi’s eyes from the memory. “She kept screaming ‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’ Oh Ernie, love is supposed to be the strongest emotion. But sometimes hate is stronger than love.”
Ernesto gently pulled her against him, and she lay her head on his shoulder.