16

In Santo Domingo the men were cleaning the acequias. They burned the dry brush and grass along the sides and cleared the sediment out of the ditches, digging deep into the red soil so the banks would be sturdy all summer. They patched breaks where groundhogs had burrowed, and they repaired the gates that let the water from the main ditch into the smaller ones which fed the fields.

It was back-breaking work with hoe and shovel, but because it was a communal enterprise, the joking and the stories made the time pass quickly. When the work was almost done and the acequia madre was opened, there was a sense of relief. Only then did the young men talk about going to drink cold beer in Peña Blanca.

The old men had blessed the corn and calabaza seeds for planting, as they had done from time immemorial. They would pray to the kachinas, the ancestors who brought rain, and they would pray to the santos of the Catholic church that the earth accept the seeds so the pueblo would have food. In the summer they would take the patron saint of the church, Saint Dominic, from his altar and carry him in a procession into the fields so he, too, might bless the earth and the plants.

And soon, just as soon as spring turned into summer, the kachinas would come from the Jémez Mountains. Dressed in huge billowing clouds that grew into an anvil shape, they would rise into the summer sky. The tops of the massive clouds would be white as eagle’s down; beneath they would be dark and pregnant. Spring rain would come after the seeds were planted. Not much rain, but enough to slake the winter thirst. In July the fat clouds would finally let loose with summer rain, the rain of the kachinas and the santos.

Winter was done, the time of storytelling was over, now was the time of working in the fields. Amid all this timeless ceremony the old, traditional folks worried that the young people weren’t guarding the culture, that too many of the young were moving into the city and forgetting the old ways.

We must stay close to our pueblo, they said, not go to the edge of our world or beyond. There you will get lost. The center is here in Santo Domingo, it is our source of life. Stay close to the pueblo and the ceremonies, dance and sing and pray for rain and good harvest. Don’t start drinking booze and forget everything you were taught. Remember what your parents taught you. Stay with your family, stay with your clan. Sing and dance.

See what happened to José Calabasa? some whispered. He went away. He went to war, as did some of our boys during World War II and Korea, but they came back. José doesn’t come back. He does not dance, he does not go to the medicine men. Time is different now, the world of things presses around us. The world of things pushes us out of our center, out of our pueblo. Beyond the boundary of our pueblo you lose your spirit.

These are the things Joe heard in the wind as he walked around the pueblo. He had come to Santo Domingo mad and barged into the council meeting, demanding to know why the hell they were selling the water.

The attorneys were explaining Dominic’s plan to the council. The old men listened quietly and politely as the young lawyers sketched out the benefits. They were young Indian attorneys, dressed in three-piece suits. They had degrees from law schools all over the country, they had been beyond the edge of the pueblo world, and they knew how to talk Dominic’s language.

“You can’t sell the water,” Joe cried out, ready to fight. “Next we’ll start selling pueblo land, like the Cochití sold their land. You’ll have condos right here on the land of our ancestors, Americanos digging in our shrines! And soon the people with money will start telling you what to do!”

The startled pueblo policeman had rushed forward to grab Joe and haul him out, but the council president had motioned slightly. No, let him say his piece. They knew Joe; he was the son of Encarnación Calabasa, a respected man. Joe had been to a place of war, the place called Nam. Now he was reading books at the university. They knew he was troubled. He was not yet cleansed of the evil spirits of Nam.

Let him talk; every man was entitled to have his say. But the young attorneys didn’t have the patience of the old men, they wanted to get on with the project, and Joe Calabasa was a washed-out vet who carried no weight.

“Since when are you an authority on our water rights, Joe?” Gilbert Trujillo challenged him. “You’re not on the council, so get off your high horse. And you ain’t been around the pueblo for a long time, so what gives you the right to say anything. We’ve been working on this plan for a long time—”

“Behind our backs!” Joe shouted, the anger he felt getting the best of him. Gilbert had stung all right. Sonofabitchin’ Gilly with his highfalutin ‘I’m an attorney, got a degree, and you Joe, you ain’t even been here at the pueblo for years.’ It stung Joe, because Gilly was right.

“Shit,” Gilbert muttered beneath his breath. He grinned and looked at the council members. “It’s not behind nobody’s back, Joe,” and a suddenly startled Joe Calabasa looked into the impenetrable faces of the old men. Their eyes gave nothing away, but because they didn’t respond, Gilbert was right. Holy Coyote, they were going to sell the water!

Joe looked at his father, but Encarnación Calabasa sat so still he betrayed no emotion. His father had voted with the council, Joe thought. He felt betrayed.

His knees were weak, like a buffalo stung with the lance of a warrior; the bleeding had begun. His breath went out, and he stood looking at the council members for a long time. A fly droned against a windowpane. Joe felt his heart pounding. The deal was already done, they were going to sell the water. The old men had no power. The young kids like Gilbert were running the show. Joe shook his head sadly and walked out.

There was nothing to say; he had no power of persuasion. He hadn’t been home for years, so he was like a stranger in the pueblo. He had not yet cleansed himself of the war; he had not yet danced. Yes, he was helping with the acequia, which was a beginning because he was working with the men, but it would take time before he reentered the circle of the pueblo.

He needed a drink, his mouth was so dry. Around him the wind whipped up the dirt of the street, a skirt of dust, exposing the dry bone of earth beneath.

The day was warm and the pueblo seemed deserted. Joe picked up his shovel and headed for the acequia where the crew was already at work. Once there he tackled the job with an awesome, angry energy.

The rest of the men stayed out of his way. He was a mad buffalo outdistancing the best of the workers, a machine plowing through the earth. He mumbled to himself, thinking of the water that came from the Río Grande down the main ditch. He thought of his visions.

Three nights in a row since coming to the pueblo, he dreamed he was pinned to the ground, and around him squatted Viet Cong. They had tied his arms and legs in four directions and stripped him naked. Overhead a vulture circled and then dropped to perch on him. The giant bird ripped his body open and ate at his heart and liver.

The pain was real, so real he awoke screaming, clutching his chest. Each night he had crept out of the house to the acequia to wash his face and arms, and always behind him he felt the presence of his father, saying nothing but watching over him, waiting for his son to return.

By noon Joe was exhausted from digging. He had done the work of three men and blisters bled on his palms, his muscles throbbed. As Joe sat, the women brought food for the men: chile stew with meat, beans, and Indian bread baked in the hornos.

His mother served his father and then Joe. “How do you feel, mi’jo?” she asked. She placed the food in front of him where he sat alone. The other men sat in a group under the huge cottonwood tree on the cool acequia bank, but Joe sat under the hot sun. Why was he punishing himself? she wondered.

“Okay, Mom,” he replied. He looked at her. Flor de Calabasa, his mother, a woman who took the pollen of his father. Spanish blood and Indian blood mixed in Joe, as it had in people for hundreds of years along the Río Grande. He was a Santo Domingo man, but in him ran the blood of the conquistadores, the old Spanish blood of the conquerors of his people, the blood of Coronado who marched up the Río Grande in 1540. Men of iron, the old people of the pueblo called them. They took our food and women. The hermanos Franciscos destroyed our kivas and our sacred objects, and they left pestilence in their wake.

But what the hell, isn’t that what all conquerors do? Joe thought. Didn’t we take the women of our Nam brothers? In the hootches of the villages or in Saigon flophouses, we took the women and gave birth to a new generation of mestizos. Nam babies running around with blond hair, kinky hair, Indian and Chicano color in their skin. It would not be an easy life for them, either.

“Don’t work so hard,” his mother said, and turned to look at his father, who didn’t look up from his meal. She wanted to reach out and touch her son, hold him as she had when he was a child, but that was not permitted. Things were hard enough for her son. Her son who had been wounded in the war nobody won; her son who preferred to live in the city and read books. Was it too late for him to return home?

She turned and walked with the other women back to the pueblo.

Joe watched her walk away. Did he blame her? Or did he blame his father? No, their love had been good all these years. But why did it matter that he had Spanish blood in him? When he started school in Peña Blanca, the Mexican kids used to tease him and he would fight. When he came home bloodied, his mother would clean him up and say, “Don’t fight. Remember, they are your cousins.”

Joe glanced at his father. He had been a farmer all his life, preferring the life and rhythms of the pueblo to the better-paying jobs in Santa Fé or Alburkirk. A farmer like the farmers in the Nam villages, like his father before him. He planted seeds in the soil, praying for the rain as he prayed for his son to return, hoeing and mixing his sweat into the earth.

Joe thought of Bea. How simple and good to have a woman who would have your children. Children raised like corn and squash.

“If you had been a girl we would have called you Squash Blossom,” his father liked to kid him. “Flor de Calabasa, just like your mother. But it was San José fiesta day, and the old priest got hold of you and dunked you in the acequia. Baptized you José.”

Joe’s cousin, Charlie, called him Mad Buffalo, Warrior Who Destroys. I scattered seeds from my M-16, seeds of hate, Joe thought.

You, too, can be an All-American Indian, the recruiting sergeant said. We’ll make a Marine out of you! All-American Indian Jerk is what they should have said.

“Yeah, a jerk,” Joe said aloud, and the men glanced at him. He was speaking his thoughts again.

The men had finished eating. The older men smoked, the younger men joked. They were talking about the good food they had eaten, when cousin Johnny began teasing Rollie about eating too much white bread because he was living with an Anglo girl from Bernalillo. Rollie and his girl had an apartment in the city; Rollie was taking classes at the tech school.

“You eat white bread and pretty soon you start getting white,” Johnny said.

The story was that the girl only fixed Rollie white bread and boiled egg sandwiches. He came home so sick his mother had to give him a strong laxative. They said his stools came out wrapped in Rainbo Bread plastic wrap.

“Yeah,” cousin Rabbit said, “watch out.” Rabbit was a good-looking young man who made the rounds of Santa Fé bars picking up lonely tourist women.

“What are you talking about?” the others booed Rabbit.

“You been making it in Santa Fé!”

“One of those Mexican boys is goin’ run you over in his lowrider car!” They laughed.

“Dead rabbit.”

“No more humpin’.”

“Ah, white women treat me good,” Rabbit said. “I got what it takes. You guys can’t even make it with Cochití girls.”

Somebody filled a bucket of water and splashed it over him, then they ganged up on him and threw him into the acequia, and a bunch of them jumped in and started dunking each other.

Then one of the old men called; it was time to get back to work. The young men climbed out of the ditch, soaking wet, laughing, feeling good. Joe had watched, but he had not joined in. He felt too old to play with the young men, too young to sit with the elders. He was outside the circle.

He looked up to see a trail of dust coming toward them. It was Abrán’s car.

“My friend,” he said, and smiled.

A slight nod from his father said, go, you’ve done enough work for one day. Joe shouldered his shovel and walked to the road.

“Where have you two been?” he asked. They shook hands softly, good friends meeting.

At the house Flor was glad to meet Abrán and Lucinda, and happy for her son. Friends were good for him. Later, when Encarnación came home, she served a big dinner, all of Joe’s favorite dishes. Afterwards they sat in the front room, drank coffee, and talked. The pueblo was in a festive mood now that the acequias were clean. Neighbors dropped by to say hello and to see who the visitors were. It was Saturday night and there was a big dance in Algodones.

Bea and her mother came by the house. Joe didn’t know if they had just dropped by or if his mother had invited them. He knew the two mothers plotted to get them together. Tonight he didn’t mind, he was home with family and friends, and Bea looked beautiful in her velvet dress and turquoise jewelry. She had braided her dark, shiny hair so that it fell around her right shoulder. Joe had never seen her look as lovely.

“You look like you’re goin’ dancin’,” Joe’s father said. Bea’s mother shook her head.

“Not dancin’, we just came by to say hello.”

Joe introduced Bea and her mother to Lucinda and Abrán.

“We should go dancing,” he said. “Look at us, all dressed up. Everybody’s going.”

“No,” Bea’s mother said. “Too much drinking.”

“The boys worked hard all week,” Encarnación said, “they deserve a break.”

“It would be good for them,” Flor agreed. She looked at her son. He had combed his hair in a chongo and tied it with a ribbon borrowed from his father. The cowboy shirt was also borrowed from his father. He was a handsome man, and she was proud of him.

“I want to go dancing,” Joe said. He looked at Bea.

“I’m for it,” Lucinda agreed.

“Hey, I usually dance with a jumprope, but this sounds good.” Abrán smiled at her.

The gay mood in the air was infectious, except for Bea’s mother. She shook her head. “Too much drinkin’, too many accidents.”

“We would be careful,” Bea said softly.

“I promise not to touch a drop,” Joe swore.

“Come on, Hazel,” Encarnación prodded Bea’s mother, “let her go. The kids got to have some fun. I remember when you were young, you liked to go to those dances in Peña Blanca.”

Bea’s mother blushed. “That was different, there was no drinkin’ then.”

“There’s always been drinkin’.” Encarnación shrugged. “Joe told you he ain’t goin’ drink.”

“Ma, you used to dance?” Bea asked.

“Sure,” Encarnación said. “She never missed a dance. The Spanish boys at Peña Blanca were always after her.”

Bea’s mother blushed. “All right,” she consented, “you can go. Or Carney will make up stories about me. But you got to be home early.”

Bea hugged her. “Thanks, Mom.”

“All right!” Joe shouted. “We’re goin’ 49er! Stompin’ mad! Come on!” He grabbed Bea’s hand and led Abrán and Lucinda outside. “Let’s go!”

“Be home early!” Bea’s mom called.

“Be careful,” Flor said as they waved goodbye.

They packed into Abrán’s car and headed for Algodones, where the little bar was packed with natives from the surrounding villages. Even couples from Alburquerque came to the old cantina. A small band played rock and roll, a few country-western, a few oldies. Like any other Saturday night in a small town, old acquaintances were renewed and new ones made. Young men met young women, and one or two of the liaisons would lead to one-night stands. Some would lead to marriage.

If Joe had a woman, Flor had said, he would settle down, raise a family. They liked Bea, and before Nam came, everyone thought they would get married. Then Joe joined the service, and when he came back, he was a changed man. Not even Bea’s patient love could draw him back to the pueblo.

When the music finally stopped, Abrán and Lucinda said goodbye to their friends with promises to meet soon. Joe and Bea would catch a ride back to the pueblo with his cousin, and Joe swore he would be in Alburquerque for Abrán’s fight.

“Call my folks’ place. I’ll be here,” he said. The anger he felt at the the council had dissipated, but for how long?

They shook hands, said goodbye, and in the cool of the spring night, Abrán and Lucinda roared out of the glass-littered parking lot toward the city.

Overhead the glitter of the stars was dimmed by the lights of Alburquerque, and the beauty and mystery of the northern mountains was suddenly gone. Reality now was the high, semi-arid plateau and its city that straddled the Río Grande. Yesterday’s breeze had cleaned out the valley, but now, even in the calm of the night, a thin cloud of pollution hung over the city.

“Not like Córdova,” Abrán said.

“Sometimes I wonder why I come back,” Lucinda replied.

“Why do you?”

“Work.”

“You know, I like the idea of the clinic,” he said. “Is it being too idealistic?”

“Maybe.” She smiled. “But somebody has to believe.”

Again he asked her, “Do you really think you’re pregnant?” He had asked a dozen times already.

“I’m sure,” she answered. “Scared?”

“Maybe a little,” he answered.

“Want to change your mind?”

“No way. I want you, I want whatever comes with you. It’s just something I have to get used to. Joe and I used to talk about marriage. He wants to marry Bea. He knows he needs her, but now it looks like I beat him. They can be our padrinos.”

Lucinda nodded and held his hand. Her thoughts were focused on the growing life she felt within. Of course it was too soon for her body’s imperceptible changes to tell her anything, but she knew—deep in her soul she knew she had conceived, and Nana had confirmed her intuition.

A few weeks ago, Abrán thought, becoming a father was only an abstract thought. Now it was real, and the more he thought about it, the more he liked the feeling. He knew Sara would be happy.

The house and paintings Cynthia had left him would help. A medical career was more of a reality now. He could help people, and he and Lucinda could eventually work together. Devoting his life to the clinic she envisioned in the northern villages was something he wanted to share. Now he knew its importance to the people. And now he had the resources to help make the dream a reality.

He sighed. There were others like him, Chicanos who had one parent who was Anglo or Black or Asian. The new mestizos. They would have to find their identity, as he was trying to find his. At first he had been full of anger; he didn’t want to understand doña Tules’ message. But now he felt strong. He had found Lucinda’s love, the love of her parents, and the trust of Juan Oso. He had reaffirmed his commitment to Sara, and he was happy. He would accept his dead mother, make peace with her even though he had never known her, and he would find his father.

He thought about his child. He would be a good father, the best possible. If he could just be done with Dominic.

“Dominic’s going to be pissed,” he thought aloud.

“Who cares,” Lucinda whispered, and snuggled at his side. “Maybe you should just drop everything.”

“I can’t, I gave my word.”

“You men. Your word, your honor.”

“It’s got to be worth something,” he said.

“It is, but you know he’s not good.”

“I’ll be done soon. I want to see doña Tules. Been thinking a lot of that old woman.”

“And your mom.”

“I’ll have to take her up to Santa Fé to see the house.”

“And to Córdova to meet my parents.”

“All these responsibilities,” he acknowledged.

He dropped Lucinda at her house, promised to take her to dinner the following night, then drove home. He slept peacefully until Sara’s coffee and breakfast aroma roused him the next morning. He told her everything. She was pleased, but her mood was subdued.

“How strange is destiny,” she said. “The mother who could not care for you when she was alive has come back from the grave to help you. She did love you, but …” She paused, glanced out the window. He waited. “You have to make very wise decisions. Don’t give up who you are …”

“I won’t,” he said, and leaned to kiss her forehead. He thought she meant not to forget about her, but she really meant that he had within him the knowledge of his identity. Not even a change in fortune should alter that.

“The ways of the world can distract you,” she said, then, realizing how ominous her thoughts were, she changed the subject. “There were many phone calls. Everybody wants to talk to you. And your picture’s in the papers. I go to the store and everybody wants to know about you.” She paused and grew silent again.

“What’s the matter, Mamá?” he coaxed her.

“Be careful,” she said. “Don’t change too much. I don’t want to lose the son I have.”

“You won’t. This is going to work out fine. Lucinda and I want to take you up north to meet her parents. You’re going to like them, and you’ll like the mountains. Who knows, you might like to retire up there. ¿Qué dices?” He laughed to cheer her.

“Who knows,” she replied. “But I think I’ll probably stay right here. The memory of your father is here, my friends are here.”

“What makes you happy is what I want. Besides, I can come for you when you feel like seeing your grandkids.”

“Grandkids?” Her eyebrows arched. He nodded, and she flung her arms around his neck and cried for joy, her tears staining his shirt. “Imagine, grandchildren. I’m happy, mi’jo. I’m happy for you.”

After breakfast he put on his workout pants and sweatshirt and jogged to the gym. He worked out the rest of the morning, then returned in time to help Sara clean her rose garden. They dug around the bushes and he cut away the old stems. She told stories as they worked, about people she had known. After a late lunch Abrán relaxed and flipped through the newspaper.

“The shit has hit the fan,” he whistled softly.

The papers were blowing up the mayoral race, pitting Dominic against Johnson. In typical fashion Martínez was already discounted as far as the editorials were concerned. A series of stories on the sports page probed into Abrán’s life. He was a mystery man nobody could find that week. Dominic was accused of hiding him. The fight itself had suddenly become the hot news item, moving from the sports page to the front page. “Abrán González Returns to the Ring,” the headlines announced. Was the former Golden Gloves champ ready for a pro fight? Too much, Abrán thought as he put the paper down and stood to read through the phone notes Sara had taken. There was Marisa’s number. I can’t, he thought, not now.

Late in the afternoon he drove to Dominic’s, rode the elevator up and announced himself. The secretary buzzed Casimiro, and he escorted Abrán into Dominic’s office, offering another warning. “You fucked up, kid.”

The cool poise Dominic always affected disappeared when he saw Abrán. He was livid. “Where in the hell have you been?” he shouted.

“I went up north—”

“Who in the hell gave you permission to go up north!” Dominic roared back. “You broke training. One fucking week! The most important time! You knew the fight date was set!”

“I’m okay—”

“The hell you’re okay. You’ve been fucking around. First fucking the mayor, then that little bitch you run around with!”

Abrán’s response surprised even Dominic. He reached out, grabbed Dominic by the lapels, and jerked him off his feet.

“You never call Lucinda a bitch!” he shouted in Dominic’s face, fighting the impulse to hit him as he shoved him back. In the same split second the two dobermans attacked. They had followed Dominic into the room. When the stranger grabbed their master, they both jumped at once, fangs slashing, killer growls in their throats. The big one knocked Abrán sideways, the smaller dog grabbed his leg and clamped its teeth. Blood appeared instantly.

“Down! Down!” the startled Dominic shouted. “Back down!” He had to pull away the dog that had grabbed Abrán’s leg. “Back, Diablo! Back, Ali!” Casimiro ran in to help.

“Shit!” Dominic cursed as the dogs backed down, whined, and allowed Casimiro to lead them out onto the terrace. “Don’t ever pull that again, kid. Next time I’ll let them kill you.” He straightened his collar and looked at Abrán. “Let’s see that.” He pulled up the pantleg, revealing the bleeding shin. “Holy fuck! That’s all we need! Cass! Get him to a doctor.”

“Can you walk?” Casimiro asked.

“I’m okay, it’s just a cut,” he pushed Casimiro away. There was pain, but it was deadened by his anger. He wasn’t done with Dominic.

“I don’t care how much you know, Frank, just don’t you ever bad-mouth Lucinda again. You do and you won’t have enough dogs to keep me back!”

They glared at each other, Dominic gritted his teeth in anger. The little sonofabitch needed to be put in his place. Okay, two could play the game. He smiled.

“Take it easy, kid. Get the cut bandaged. You got a fight this week. I just hope to hell you can still fight.”

“I’ll be at that fight!” Abrán shot back. “You just make sure you’re there! And with the information you promised!”

Casimiro stepped in between the two. He had never seen his boss so angry. “Take it easy,” he said and pulled Abrán away.

On the terrace the dogs clawed madly at the glass window and growled to get in.

“Get him outta here!” Dominic shouted, the veins along his temple pulsing, his body trembling with rage. The kid was going to cost him. He was too goddamn independent.

Maybe I made a mistake, Dominic thought as Abrán and Casimiro walked out of the office. The cocky sonofabitch is feeling his oats. He had fucked the mayor, the papers make him a hero, so he thinks he has the world by the balls.

“I’ll show him,” Dominic cursed, “I’ll show him.”