2

Abrán and Joe drove south on Atrisco toward Central, then across the old Tingley Beach road. Tingley Beach was a large pond which ran parallel to the deep acequia on the east side of the Río Grande. On the north side of the irrigation canal spread the Country Club golf course and beyond that were the homes of the once prestigious old neighborhood.

Tingley Beach had been the city’s first swimming hole. It was built during the term of the late 1930s mayor, Clyde Tingley, so the name had stuck. It was the only lake of any size in the city. In the forties and fifties the city swarmed to Tingley Beach on Sunday afternoons, but when the polio epidemics swept the country, its use as the local swimming hole was prohibited. Municipal pools were built in the fifties and now the beach was a winter fishing hole. Ducks lived there year-round, and withered elm trees lined the dry, sandy banks.

In every kind of weather, fishermen plied the stagnant waters, lovers came to sit at the tables on the sandy banks, and joggers ran along trails by the side of the beach. Today there was a family enjoying the first warm day of spring.

“If they build the big aquatic park the city is planning, la raza gets pushed out,” Joe said. “My grandfather used to tell me the city was going to grow. ‘Just don’t let them get the pueblo land,’ he said. If you give up your land, you die. The developers have built clear up to the Sandías. Now they’re buying up the downtown barrios.”

“What’s left?” Abrán asked.

“The river land. ‘Water is blood,’ my grandpa said, and now they need the blood to keep building.”

“The conservancy won’t let them,” Abrán said.

“Don’t believe it, bro. See in the paper where Dominic is running for mayor? He cooked up a big water scheme. Gonna take the river right downtown. When men with money want to do something like that, the laws bend for them.”

Abrán nodded. Joe was right. “What did you think of Ben Chávez?”

“He’s okay. Sure as hell should never have gotten in a game with Bernie.”

“You had a class with him?”

“Yeah, when I first started at the university. I thought I wanted to be a writer. Write about my grandfather, the way he lived. It was no good, Nam was too close.”

Abrán turned toward the barrio.

“Hey, where you going?”

“Home. The jefita’s got supper waiting.”

“Can’t, bro. Not tonight.”

“Come on, I told her after we ran we’d be hungry. She’s expecting us.”

They had jogged around Roosevelt Park, then stopped at Jack’s for a beer. Joe sometimes went home with him after they ran. Today was special, Abrán thought. He had gone into the fight instinctively to help Joe, and when he had time to reflect, he realized he still had the quickness in his hands.

“I can’t. Drop me off at the bus depot.”

“Meeting someone?”

“I want to send a letter to my mom. My cousin is picking up his rides about now.”

There was a sadness in his voice, something Abrán seldom heard from his friend. Joe was tough. He had survived Nam and he had survived life in the streets after the war. Now he was catching up on the years he had lost. He lived in an apartment near the university and he was taking classes, but Abrán knew that the real issue Joe had to deal with was whether or not to return to the pueblo.

“The men of the pueblo will be out cleaning the acequias,” Joe said. “They need help. My old man will spread out his corn and calabaza seeds like they were gold coins. Almost time to plant.”

Abrán knew Joe needed the pueblo, he needed to be back in its circle, but he was afraid to return and take the ghosts of Nam with him.

“I’d like to see Bea,” Joe said. “When I first got back, I thought I was okay. Had my uniform on, spit shine. I was drinking, but so was everybody. First night I took her out, I drank a lot. I guess I wanted to tell her about Nam, but when I tried I went crazy. I took it out on her. I don’t ever want to do that again.”

Joe grew silent, immersed in his own thoughts, and Abrán respected the silence. Abrán knew a little about the kind of pain Joe was carrying. He remembered the death of his friend, Junior Gómez. Gunner they used to call him, because when they were kids he imitated the sound of a submachine gun when they played war. Junior was with Abrán in Golden Gloves all the way through their senior year. Then one afternoon, after a sparring session, Junior died. He went home with a headache and died that night, and Abrán had blamed himself. The coaches tried to tell him it was an accident, but the death of his best friend haunted Abrán. He put away the gloves and the dreams of turning pro, finished high school, and escaped to Los Angeles for two years. During those years he tried to cut himself away from the past. He called only his mother, Sara, and he lost touch with the old gang. Still, Junior haunted him.

He also remembered the death of Ramiro, his father. He was six when the old man died, and that memory was not as poignant. Yet there were times when he remembered things Ramiro had told him, and the warmth and earth smell of the old man.

Twice, death had changed Abrán’s life.

He sighed as he pulled up in front of the bus depot. “There’s Sonny,” Abrán said and nodded at the pickup in front of them.

“Yeah,” Joe said. “I’ll call you Monday. Tell your mom to save me some tortillas.”

“Take care.” Abrán waved, but he waited. Maybe Joe would change his mind.

The man standing at the truck door turned and watched Joe get out of the car. “Hey, Joe, you ugly Indian, have a beer.”

“Hey, Sonny.” Joe took the beer and nodded at the guys sitting in the camper. A couple of San Felipe boys who worked with Sonny.

“We’re going dancin’ in Algodones,” one of them said.

“Goin’ kick ass with our Cochití cousins,” the other added. They laughed.

“Come on,” Sonny said, “lez go, cousin.”

Joe turned and looked at Abrán. Go on, Joe, Abrán wanted to call to him. Go home. You’ve been away too long. And Joe, who had stepped close to the truck and now had Sonny’s arm around his shoulder as they drank beer, wanted to go home. He wanted to crawl into the camper and drink and sing all the way home. He wanted to envelop himself in the smell in the camper, the smell of men who had sweated and worked hard all day.

“Come on, Joe, let’s haul ass,” one of them said.

“We gotta go, Joe,” Sonny said. “You comin’?”

Joe shook his head. “Nah. I got things to do here. Take this to my mom, huh.” He handed Sonny the letter.

“Sure,” Sonny said, “but you’re gonna miss a good dance.”

“See you, Joe.”

“Don’t take any Indian nickels.”

“Watch out for them white girls!”

They called and laughed as Sonny burned rubber out into the traffic. A car honked; the driver cursed.

Joe turned and looked at Abrán. He had waited, hoping Joe would change his mind, but Joe waved and walked off down the street. Abrán pulled away, a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn’t like it when he couldn’t understand Joe, when Joe went into one of his moods. He’s going to drink this weekend, Abrán thought. Dream of the pueblo and drink.

He had met Joe in a PE class at the university. They began to run together, talk about other classes, and they became good friends. Joe was older; he knew the world. He became, in a sense, the father Abrán didn’t have. Abrán knew when Joe was in a drinking mood, when he needed to escape the demons that had entered his soul in Nam.

Abrán turned south on Fourth into the Barelas barrio and home. Dusk was settling over the neighborhood. He pulled into his driveway, then stopped at the door and paused to break a sprig of yellow forsythia for his mother.

When he entered, the aroma of food filled his nostrils. Chile, beans, potatoes frying, hot tortillas. “Mamá!” he called. Always Mamá or jefita. He never called her by her name, Sara. She was in her late fifties and proud, she said, to be old-fashioned. Dinners were important, and they centered around her son. I cook for you to please you, she said. Your father was like that, the evening meal was special. It was a time for family to be together.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he picked up the mail at the telephone table and entered the kitchen. The envelope had a St. Joseph Hospital return address. A bill? he wondered.

“Mi’jo, I’m glad to see you,” his mother said as she turned from the salad she was mixing to kiss him. He handed here the flowers. “For the salad?” She smiled.

“For you. I met Ben Chávez, the writer. Joe and I dropped in for a beer at Jack’s. And there was a fight, not bad, just …”

“A fight?”

“Not bad. An argument. The writer—”

“What writer?” she asked, wiping her hands and putting the sprig of forsythia in a glass of water on the windowsill. The geranium was still blooming bright red, but the forsythia made her realize spring had arrived. She would have Abrán turn the soil in the flower bed. And the trim around the house needed painting.

Abrán opened the letter. “Do we owe St. Joe’s?”

“No, not that I know. So, tell me about the writer.”

“He got in a game of pool with a bad character …” his voice trailed off as he read the letter. When he finished he looked up at her. A dark, penetrating look. He was looking for himself in her. She felt her heart skip a beat, and the fear she had lived with since Abrán became her son surfaced. It had come. The letter she had feared for so long had come.

“There’s a mistake,” he said softly and looked at the envelope again, then at the letter.

“What does it say?” she asked, her knees weak, her mouth dry. He had looked at her and did not recognize himself. Santo Niño de Atocha, it was bound to happen. She had always known it would happen, hadn’t she told herself? She knew that one day he would look at her and not see his reflection, and she would have to tell him that she and her husband, Ramiro, had adopted him as a child. He was given to them, and they were made to take a vow never to tell Abrán about his past.

With trembling hands she took the letter. Cynthia Johnson. The pain in her heart grew sharper.

“Sit,” he said and he quickly got her a glass of water. She had glanced at the letter and grown pale. He held the glass to her trembling hands and she sipped.

“It’s not for me,” he said. “A mistake.” His voice seemed so far away. Would she lose him? Why was this woman writing now?

“She says she’s my mother,” he said, then repeated, “a mistake.”

“No.” Sara shook her head. “Not a mistake.” Her voice broke, she felt tears in her eyes. “Ay, hijito, hijito,” she cried.

He put his arms around her. “Who is she? Why does she call herself my mother?”

He should know the truth. One day he had to know the truth, and if the Johnson woman had broken the vow of silence, now was the time. Sara González had to tell her son she was not his mother. She had promised her husband that when the time came she would tell Abrán.

“There’s got to be a mistake. I’ll go over to the hospital in the morning—”

“No. Not a mistake,” she gasped and wiped her eyes with her apron. She looked into his eyes. She had to be strong, she could not hide the truth from him. “I want you to know I have always loved you,” she whispered.

“I know that,” Abrán answered, feeling empty inside. The woman who wrote the letter said she was his mother, and when he looked at Sara he knew it was true. It was his turn to feel the shock; his stomach turned and tightened. Sara was not his mother, and Ramiro was not his father. Perhaps he had always known this, but never faced it. He loved them too much, and their love for him was the love of a true father and mother.

“And I love you,” he said and held her hands, and felt their strength. “There’s a mistake.…”

“We adopted you. But we loved you like our son, our own blood.”

“Adopted?” The word rang hollow and wrenched his soul. The vague dreams of his identity suddenly became a disturbing reality. The light color of his skin, his eyes, his features that were not the features of this woman he called Mother.

You resemble your father, she had told him when he asked, but he remembered his father as a short, dark man. His skin was the color of the earth. Yes, I resemble my father, he agreed, and because he didn’t want to trouble her, he asked no more. But in the barrio there were whispers. The old people called him güerito.

“The woman who wrote the letter is your mother.”

He shook his head, turned and looked at the letter again. Cynthia Johnson. The artist? The daughter of the well-known banker? It couldn’t be. Somebody was playing a cruel joke. He was Abrán González, he had always been Abrán González. His mother was sitting in front of him, her name was Sara.

“Adopted?” he heard himself say again, and Sara’s eyes told him the world he once knew was slipping away. To steady himself he reached out and touched his mother’s hand.

“You were given to us, mi’jito,” she said and held his hands tightly. She did not want to let him go. She had raised him, she knew his soul, but he was not of her blood. What would Ramiro say? Tell the boy the truth. She needed Ramiro’s strength now that she felt so weak and useless.

“Ramiro worked for the family of el señor Johnson. From the time we came from Guadalupe, he worked for them as the gardener. For a while I worked, cleaning the house. We knew the family; we knew Cynthia from the time she was born.”

She took another drink of water and looked into Abrán’s eyes. The pain was as much his as hers. Would the truth separate them? She braced herself and continued.

“The girl grew. Cynthia. Cindy, the kids used to call her. When she was in high school she became pregnant. You see, they are rich, they did not want the child.”

Me, Abrán thought. They didn’t want me. I am that woman’s child, the unwanted baby.

“I would not lie to you, my son. It hurts me to tell you this.”

“Go on,” he said. He felt bruised, as if he had taken a beating, as if he had just come in from a long, tiring journey.

“Cynthia’s father wanted the girl to have an abortion, but the girl resisted. You were born, and you were given to us.”

“But you’ve never said anything,” he groaned. His life had been a lie, and the woman he had called Mother was part of that lie.

“We couldn’t!” She grasped him. “Don’t you see, we gave our word that we would never reveal the truth. El señor Johnson is a very rich man. He made us promise that we would never say anything.”

“And my father?” he asked. “Who is he?”

There was a long silence, then Sara sighed. “We never knew,” she said. “But Cynthia is your mother. Your blood.”

He looked again at the letter. “She’s dying. Cancer.”

“That is why she wants to see you.”

“All these years.” He shook his head.

She reached out and touched his cheek. “Don’t be harsh on me, mi’jito. We did what we had to do. We promised to raise you as best we could. Ramiro and I didn’t have children; we were hungry for children! And don’t be harsh on the woman who is your mother. She provided for you.”

“I should have known, I should have asked.”

“There was nothing to tell you. We took a vow, and until now the woman has never contacted us.”

“She sent money?”

“Yes. We had enough, Ramiro always worked. After he died she made sure we had what we needed. She was always generous.”

“Ah, damn, jefita!” Abrán cried, a sob escaping with the pain he felt. “I don’t know what to say.” He rose and looked out the kitchen window. Night had settled on the barrio. His mother rose to remove the food from the stove.

Where do I belong, Abrán wondered.

“I have to see her,” he said.

“Yes,” Sara said. “She needs you.”

“I’ll go right away.”

“Eat first.”

“Can’t.”

She understood. “I wish I could have made this easier,” she said, hugging him. “You are still my son.”

“I always will be,” he answered and tried to smile. He kissed her forehead and went out the door into the night. But now his world was different. In the night shadows there lurked a sense of danger. Who am I? he asked, and he did not know the answer.

My world has changed, he thought as he drove up the dark barrio street. That morning he had gone to classes, then hit the books. In the afternoon he called Joe and they jogged. Then the chance meeting with the writer, the fight, and finally the letter. In a short time the world was a very different place, and he was a man with a clouded past. How could this woman be his mother? And who was his father? He felt anger building inside, and he cursed the crumpled letter he held in his hand.

He, Abrán, had been born into the world an orphan, unwanted. What did he owe this woman? Nothing, he owed her nothing. Sara was his mother, she had raised him, he loved her. And Ramiro was his father. The old man with the smell of earth and sweat was the face he remembered as Father.

But old, nagging questions now made sense. Sara was now in her fifties. You were born late in our lives, she said once. Una bendición de Dios. He was fair-skinned, so he learned to smile when the old people in the barrio called him güerito, and he learned to fight when the dark-skinned Mexican kids made fun of him. “You’re not Mexican, güero,” they teased, and that barb hurt more than anything. He learned to take on the tough kids, and he grew skillful with his fists.

“I’ll show you I’m Mexican,” was his battle cry, and he cursed with the best barrio Spanish he knew and went in swinging. He grew tough, and by the time he was in middle school they no longer teased. He had become intensely proud of his Mexicanness by having to prove it, and during those crucial years of puberty he became the leader of a gang called Los Gatos.

Los Gatos, he remembered. We did some crazy things. At eighteen Paco wound up in the pen for distributing marijuana, and Ricky died of an overdose when he was a senior in high school. That had made Abrán snap. He didn’t need the stupid things they were doing, the drinking on weekends and partying. They had not thought about death until Ricky died. Abrán grew up that year, and he turned all his energy into boxing. His old coach, Rudy Sánchez, took him under his wing and made a boxer out of him.

Two of the guys, Polio and Jimmy, had married right out of high school, so they remained in the barrio. He saw them from time to time, but less and less as their families grew. He was the only one from the gang who tried college. Boxing had taught him discipline, and it had given him direction. But it was really Sara’s guidance that focused him on a meaningful future.

Sara was the only mother he knew. She lived her life for him. She was his mother, not Cynthia Johnson, not the woman who lay dying in the hospital.

He was deep in thought when an old woman ran in front of his car. He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. He saw her clearly, her wild hair flowing around the wrinkled face, the eyes wild and dark, the lips open in a scream that filled the night. La Llorona, he thought, the wailing woman of the barrio.

He felt a chill of adrenaline; his fingers clasped the steering wheel. Then the creature stepped into the headlights and he recognized doña Tules.

He breathed a sigh of relief and got out of the car; she stepped back into the shadows. Had he hit her? Why did she curse him? He had heard a lot of stories about doña Tules, how she roamed the streets at night and frightened the kids of the barrio. She really was a Llorona, but a flesh-and-blood one. She always appeared along this stretch of dirt road, because, as the story went, it was the road between the church and her shack near the river. People said she came out late at night to cry at the steps of the church where she was jilted long ago.

Sara said not to believe what people said about doña Tules. She was a kind soul, she had suffered much in life. She had lived alone so long that she had visions. She knew how to heal people, and she went to the church to light candles to the Virgin, not to cry.

“Doña Tules?” Abrán asked. “Are you all right?”

“Abrán de la Sara?” she asked hoarsely.

She was standing in the shadows, pointing at him. Dressed in a dirty and tattered gown, she drew close. Thank God he hadn’t hit her, he breathed in relief.

“Sí,” he answered.

“Your mother is dying, and you are being born,” she said. Her words sent a chill through Abrán.

“Come to me when you want to know the truth.”

“What truth?” he asked.

“Tú eres tú,” she said, and pointed a thin finger at him. Then she turned and fled. A long drawn-out cry filled the night around Abrán, chilling his blood anew.

“Doña Tules!” he called. Crazy old woman. What did she mean, Tú eres tú? Is that what he heard? You are you? Or did she say Tu-er-to? Blind? He shook his head and got back in the car. He looked into the shadows, but she was gone. He shivered and felt a cold sweat on his body.

Had he really seen her? It wasn’t a ghost, it was a woman, he was sure he had seen her. Doña Tules who lived alone and wandered the back alleys of the barrio; the barrio’s bag lady of the night. What did she mean?

“Who is la Llorona?” he had asked Sara when he was a child. “We, the mothers of the world, are the crying women, because we cry when our children suffer,” Sara had answered. “Every woman is a Llorona.”

He shook his head, got back in the car, and turned the ignition with trembling hands. In the rearview mirror he saw a swirling red light appear. A cop car cruising the barrio. He didn’t feel like explaining, so he eased forward. There was no pursuit, the red light turned a corner and was gone. Maybe that’s what he had heard, the cop’s siren?

At Central he stopped for a light. He would ask Sara what the old woman meant. Sara was one of the few women in the barrio doña Tules would visit. Once or twice a year she came by to have coffee. She drank in silence, took the clothes Sara had saved for her, and that was it.

A car honked and Abrán drove on, turning into the Central Avenue artery and joining the stream of the cruisers and lowriders celebrating Friday night. Here he was just one more child of the city, anonymous, not the child of Cynthia Johnson, not the troubled Abrán anguishing over what being her son meant. He flowed with the loud music and shouts of the kids in their customized cars. In their rite of spring he forgot for a moment the weight he carried, but when he turned toward the hospital he was Abrán again, Abrán being born into a new life. The point was now persistent; the woman dying of cancer at St. Joe’s was his mother. Would his father be there?

It was long after visiting hours, and the dark corridors were deserted. At the nurses’ station he explained he had come to see Cynthia Johnson. The two nurses glanced at each other, the older nodded and the younger one said, “Come with me.” Her name tag read Lucinda Córdova.

“What’s your relationship to the patient?” she asked as she led him down the quiet hallway.

“I’m her son,” he answered. The words sounded strange.

“Her son?” the nurse asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

She stopped at a door and turned to look at him. “You know she’s dying.” Abrán nodded. Her eyes were kind, she was trying to prepare him. But what was he supposed to feel about the dying woman? He didn’t even know her.

“She can barely speak,” she explained. “She may not recognize you.” She paused. “Are you ready?”

He nodded and they entered the room.

“Let’s see if she’s awake.…”

They entered the dark room. A bedside lamp cast a dim light on the thin, shrunken figure on the bed. The cancer had been victorious; it had eaten away at the flesh and the spirit, leaving a frail body gasping for breath. Abrán approached, looked at the face of Cynthia Johnson. In spite of the ravages of the disease it was a handsome face, the face of a once-attractive woman.

The nurse leaned and whispered in the woman’s ear. “Ms. Johnson? Are you awake? Cynthia? Can you hear me? Someone to see you. Your son.” She looked at Abrán.

“Abrán,” he said.

“Abrán. Your son.”

Cynthia’s eyelids fluttered, her eyes opened. She had been dreaming that she was painting a picture in which a bright figure dressed in white appeared. The figure glowed and moved; the sound of a drum filled the air.

The nurse was the figure in the painting, the angel of death. Perhaps the figure was doña Sebastiana, the skeleton of death of the old Hispanos of the valley. Perhaps she came dressed in white after all. La muerte, death, her sister. She saw the bony hand outstretched and Cynthia reached out to take it.

She had painted the figure of death once, doña Sebastiana in her cart, a bow and arrow her hands. But she had painted la Muerte in white silk with lace and bows, and she had put bright lipstick on death’s lips. The old penitentes of the morada where Cynthia left the painting laughed and said it looked like la Comadre was going dancing. Death was going dancing, they said and laughed.

“Abrán,” the figure said again.

My son. Abrán, she tried to whisper. He stood next to the figure in white. He had come at last. Come closer, come closer, let me hold you in my arms. But the shadow of death was too strong. You don’t deserve your son, la Muerte said, you must die alone.

“Give me a few minutes with my son, comadre,” she struggled to say.

“She’s trying to speak,” the nurse whispered.

Abrán was glad the nurse had stayed with him. He didn’t know if he could face the dying woman alone. His mother. He wanted to feel some emotion, but what? He reached out and held her hands. They were cool.

She felt his touch and responded. A smile appeared at the edges of her lips, and the pain that had burned in her chest was gone. Yes, it was Abrán, her child. The nurse turned on a light and it flooded his face, like an angel glowing with life, like the face of his father when they were young.

She struggled to rise. You don’t know how many times I’ve driven past your home with hopes of catching sight of you, and how many times I’ve been in the audience when you boxed and wished I could tell you who I was. I sat in the audience when you graduated from high school, and I cried, I cried. What a cruel bargain my father made, the vow of silence. There is no greater punishment than silence.

“Abrán,” she whispered. My son, my blood, forgive me, forgive the years of silence. Come, let me hold you so I can die in peace. Forgive me.

“She said your name,” the nurse whispered, smiled.

“She recognizes me,” Abrán replied, and he too smiled.

Yes, she looked into his eyes and saw herself reflected. He had some of her features, some of his father’s features. It was like seeing her lover again. What a beautiful child their love had made, the love that was not allowed to flourish.

My son. Your hands are so warm on mine. Forgive me, I am dying, I am already dead. I died the day I was separated from you, twenty-one years ago. I had only one love in life, your father. Go to him now. Find him and tell him I asked his forgiveness also. Go before it’s too late.

She coughed, a cough born in the shriveled lungs ravaged by the cancer. Abrán instinctively reached for his handkerchief and touched it to her lips. Only after he dabbed the blood at the edge of her lips did he realize the handkerchief was spotted with the writer’s blood. He put it back in his pocket and took the towel Lucinda offered.

“Abrán,” Cynthia said again, clutching tightly at his hand, but now the smile was lost in the cloud of pain that covered her face.

“My father?” he whispered in her ear, leaning close as he had seen the nurse do. He touched her forehead lightly and whispered the question.

“Abrán,” she repeated. She looked again into his eyes, saw the face of the young boy who had fathered Abrán. My love and I will live together in Abrán.

Her eyelids fluttered and she let out a deep sigh. She turned and took the hand of the angel of death, content that she had seen her son before she died. Her hands clasped Abrán’s, then released.

Lucinda quickly reached for her wrist, felt the pulse weaken, then grow still. “She’s dead,” she said.

He nodded. He had felt the breath leave the body, the skin become cold. He had known her only a few, short moments, and now she was dead. He felt anger; he felt cheated. It wasn’t right!

The nurse pulled out a chair for him and he sat silently. Conflicting emotions swept through him; love and grief mixed with anger. He had found his mother, the mother who brought him into the world, and she was dead. Why had she kept the secret so long?

Around him Lucinda and another nurse arranged the bed and drew a sheet over Cynthia’s body. A doctor was called in to pronounce her legally dead and sign the death certificate. While they waited for him, Lucinda explained that the old doctor had taken an interest in the case.

“He’s retired, but he comes every day. He used to practice at Lovelace. He and Cynthia’s mother visit, but Cynthia’s father has never been here.” Her voice trailed. “The doctor brings her flowers. He confers with her other doctor. They say it gives him something to do, but I think it’s more than that. He has a real love for her.”

The old doctor arrived and stood at the side of Cynthia’s bed. When he finished his quiet vigil he signed the death certificate. Lucinda introduced Abrán.

There were tears in the old man’s eyes when he embraced Abrán. “She was a beautiful woman,” he struggled to speak, but emotion choked him. He shook his head, embraced Abrán again, mumbled “I’m sorry,” and left.

Abrán sat all night by Cynthia’s side; the night of her death also became the night of her wake. Lucinda stayed with him. It was proper, she told herself, to sit with the dead and pray for the departing soul. In the village of Córdova, where she grew up, wakes were still held at the home of the deceased. People came to pray all night and be with the family during its time of grief. The penitentes sang the old alabados and prayed the rosary. Death became a presence shared.

Here, a person who died in the hospital was delivered straight to the mortuary. Sometime later there was a service, then the burial. Death was kept at a distance. So she stayed with Abrán in the room with the dead woman.

Lucinda looked at him from time to time. Why had he not come before, and why did she feel drawn to him? Was it pity? No, she’d seen enough of death, she knew enough of grief. His eyes. She had looked in his eyes and felt more than concern, more than shared grief.

When the sun’s first light began to enter the room, he stood and stretched. “Thanks for staying,” Abrán said. The dark of night and the presence of death had woven a bond between them. They had shared the death of his mother.

“I’ve known Cynthia for a month. We became friends. I wanted to stay.”

“You see a lot of death,” he said.

She nodded.

“You say only her mother came to visit?”

“Yes.”

“No husband, no man?”

“She wasn’t married.”

Not married? Why were Sara and Ramiro bound to a vow of silence? Who was his father?

“You’re wondering about me?” Abrán asked.

Lucinda looked into his eyes. She had seen long, protracted illness by cancer do strange things to families. Cynthia had not mentioned Abrán until she knew she was dying. Then she had the doctor write him two days ago. Cynthia was Anglo, but Abrán wasn’t, Lucinda thought as she looked at the features of the young man. Maybe half Anglo, but his father had to be Mexican.

“I never knew her.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know her as my mother. I didn’t know she was my mother until last night.”

Lucinda reached across and touched his hand. She felt his pain. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Abrán called Sara. He didn’t want her to worry. She, too, had not slept but she told him to do whatever needed to be done. She was fine; she would wait. “Be strong, my son,” she said. It was her way of telling him she loved him, and that she understood what he had to do.

Abrán stood at the window as the sun exploded over the crest of the Sandía Mountains. He sipped the coffee Lucinda had brought him and watched the blinding, brilliant disc rise over Tijeras Canyon. It was returning north, renewing the valley. Joe would be getting up to say a prayer to the sun. Abrán prayed that his mother’s soul have a peaceful journey.

As he stood there, Abrán remembered Ramiro’s words. The sun is the source of life. The trees, plants, and flowers—without Tata Sol, they do not grow. The gardener with the dark skin had taught him much in those six years. Then he was suddenly gone, senselessly struck down by a drunk driver. How much more did the man have to teach him about the ways of his ancestors? Ramiro and Sara were proud people, a pride they instilled in him. “Puro indio,” Ramiro used to say when he described himself. “Pray to the sun each morning, my son.”

But now what? The woman whose blood he carried was Anglo. But he had always been Mexican, a Chicano. His father was Mexican, he was sure. What was he now? Half Anglo, half Mexican.

“Abrán,” Lucinda said and drew him from his thoughts. He turned to see a woman enter the room. She was in her late sixties, maybe seventy, Abrán guessed. She was short and stocky with dark hair, a handsome woman. She reminded Abrán of the women from the northern part of the state, the slightly oval face with high cheekbones, green eyes, and jet-black hair. She carried herself with poise and assurance. She had an energy within that was subdued only by the grief she felt.

She went straight to the bed and gently pulled away the sheet from Cynthia’s face. A cry filled the room, startling even Lucinda, who went to the door and closed it. It was a painful cry, a keening in the bright sun. The sobs shook the woman as she cried over Cynthia’s body.

“Cindy,” she repeated, “Cindy. My daughter, my child. We sinned against you.”

She cried for her daughter and for the years of separation from her. Those twenty-one years they had met only rarely, and then in secret, at hurried lunches or at gallery openings. They spoke briefly, like strangers, always fearful her husband, Walter, would find out. Fearful of the vow he imposed on them.

Now the vow seemed empty, and the time they could have had together wasted. She rose, wiped away her tears, and straightened her dress. Then she turned and looked at Abrán. “We have sinned against you, too,” she said.

She went to Abrán and embraced him. A new wave of grief came, and she asked forgiveness, as Cynthia had asked forgiveness. “It is you we have wronged,” she cried. “Oh, it is so good to see you face-to-face, to touch you. But why did we have to wait so long? Why did we have to be united by death?”

Abrán didn’t know how to answer. He had never seen the woman before, but he tried to comfort her. This was his mother’s mother.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I would be prepared. I knew she was dying, but still the end is not easy. How did you know?”

“She had the doctor write him,” Lucinda explained.

“I’m glad. She made her peace. Did you get here before she died?”

“Yes, she recognized me,” Abrán said.

“God is great,” she said. “God forgives.” She looked closely at him. “I am your grandmother,” she said, “Vera Johnson. Cynthia’s mother. You, too, must be forgiving. You must forgive us all.”

“What is there to forgive?” Abrán answered. “I know so little.”

“It isn’t a pleasant story,” Vera sighed.

“Cynthia fell in love with a young man when she was in high school. She got pregnant. The young man, who is your father, was Mexican. A boy from the barrio. My husband had built all his hopes on Cynthia, he wanted her to carry on the family business, and when he found out about the love affair he decided that she couldn’t have the child. He wanted her to have an abortion. He insisted. Cindy and I fought back, and finally he agreed to let her have the baby. You,” she said, looking at Abrán. So many of Cynthia’s features were his.

“She could have the baby, he said, but we would have to put you up for adoption. And we would promise never to see you or speak to you again. You see, a promise of silence for life. We had no choice, we agreed. He made an arrangement with Ramiro and Sara to adopt the child, and they, too, were sworn to secrecy. They had no children, so they were glad to take you, and they agreed never to tell you.” She reached out to hold his hands.

“Then who was my father?” Abrán asked.

“I don’t know.” Vera shook her head.

“You don’t know?” Anger rose in him. He took her by the shoulders, and his voice was harsh. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I never knew,” Vera cried. “Walter covered up everything. He wanted us to pretend that you had never been born, that you didn’t exist. The kids at school knew Cynthia was pregnant.”

“Which kids?”

“Cynthia’s friends. I don’t know, it was long ago.”

“Was there a birth certificate?” Lucinda asked.

“Don’t you see what I’m trying to tell you? Walter took care of everything. You were born, and you were gone. We never saw you. Cynthia came home from the clinic alone.”

Abrán shook his head and turned away. The shock left him weak, trembling. The anger turned on Walter Johnson, the man who had denied him his parents.

“Your husband knows!”

“I don’t think so. He went to the school when we first learned Cynthia was pregnant. He wanted to know who the boy was. I don’t know what he was going to do; he was full of anger. He could have killed the boy. When he returned he was like an empty shell. He sat in his study, saying nothing for a long time. Then he told me that he had forced the principal to march in Cynthia’s friends, the boys she knew. The boy who might be responsible. A girl helped, I think her name was Gloria. She lived in Barelas; Cynthia knew her. When the kids were in the office, Walter discovered they were all Mexican kids. He realized the boy who got Cynthia pregnant was Mexican. The principal had a grin on his face, he said. He thought that’s the way it would be the rest of his life, his business colleagues laughing at him. Walter Johnson’s daughter had lain with a Mexican kid and had a baby, they would laugh. He decided you were never to be part of us.”

“He must know my father’s name,” Abrán insisted.

“No.” Vera shook her head. “After that visit to the school it didn’t matter. Walter needed to pretend it never happened, he tried to make us forget you completely. And he found the way to force us. You were to live only if we gave you up.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Abrán said.

“He won’t speak to you.” Vera sighed. “Don’t you see, to him you’re dead. You never existed!”

“But I do exist!” Abrán exploded, the anger he had kept in check suddenly poured out. “I am here! I am alive! He can’t take that away from me. He must tell me who I am! I’ll force him! Damn him! Damn all of you!” He turned and looked at the body of his dead mother.

“Damn her! I’m not her son, I’m Abrán González, Sara’s son! You mean nothing to me!”

Vera trembled. “Hate me if you must, but don’t hate her. She was a child, she didn’t know how to fight her father. I should have known better.” Her tears flowed again.

“Abrán, it’s not her fault,” Lucinda said, trying to calm him, but inside she felt the same confusion and anger. A terrible hoax had been played on Abrán. She looked at Vera and tried to understand how a woman could do what she had done.

“It is my fault,” Vera said. “I was weak. I believed Walter, believed that all our work and fortune had to be kept in the family, believed he was doing the right thing. I know what prejudice is like. It can destroy a person. I convinced myself that you would be better off with Ramiro and Sara. A terrible sin. I can only ask your forgiveness. What’s done is done.

Abrán took a deep breath. Someday he would have to forgive her, and his mother, but not today. Today was a day of anguish and pain and anger. He thought of Sara. When Ramiro died, she had comforted him. When his friend Junior died, she was by his side. He didn’t need the dead woman and her mother; he had Sara. The only bitterness left from the ordeal was that he wouldn’t know his father.

“I’ll find him,” he whispered. The promise was a vow to God. He would find his father.

“She left you this,” Vera said and fumbled in her purse for a small book. “Her diary. She wanted you to have it.”

He took the book. Embossed in gold was her name, Cynthia Johnson. He opened to the first page and read the instructions for her funeral. There was to be a cremation and the ashes buried in the South Valley.

Reading the burial wishes of his mother to Vera and Lucinda calmed him. Together they made the plans: a small memorial service for her friends, then they would take the ashes to the South Valley.

“Do you know the place?” Vera asked.

“I can find it,” Abrán answered.

Later, when the body was wheeled out, he followed it to the hearse. Cynthia had requested he bury her, and he would. That was the only connection he would have with her. She had brought him into the world, so he would bury her according to her wishes.

Outside they stood in silence while the van pulled away. Near the entrance two large lilac bushes were in full bloom, protected and warmed by the southern exposure. A Mexican worker tilled the soil around the bush.

Vera had called the funeral home. The ashes would be delivered in two days. It seemed so simple once life was done.

Vera turned to Abrán. “You’re all I have left,” she said, and before she burst out crying again she hugged him and hurried away.

He turned to Lucinda. “Thanks for staying.”

“I’m glad I could help,” she said.

“If you can, will you come to the burial?” he asked.

“Yes. I want to. I feel I knew her.”

“You knew her better than I did.”

“She didn’t talk much, she never complained. There was a lot of pain, but she learned how to channel it as well as anybody ever learns.”

“Can I call you? I want to know what you knew about her.”

“Yes, call.” She scribbled her number for him.

He embraced her and looked into her face. A lovely face with warm, dark eyes.

“I’ll call,” he promised.