Limbo
At the break
of dawn we made love again. This is the summit of my life. My pessimism forces
me to think that things can only go down from here, but I’ll try to stay here
for as long as I can. Or alternate ups and downs, without staying on the down
side for a long time. I wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for destroying
such a perfect bind. I can be her puppy forever, even her slave. I can even try
to end my murderous life. I never thought I could come so close to happiness. I
won’t be the one who ruins it.
After Sadie
went to her house to shower and change, we took my grandma to church and to a
Mexican restaurant on Main Street for breakfast. My grandma looks proud and I’m
also proud to be the cause of her pride. Sadie got her temporary license to
drive, but we’d rather walk and push my grandma’s wheel chair.
I was
watching my grandma taking communion and it occurs to me that I have never seen
her in the confessionary, her chair doesn’t even fit there, but how can she
confess? I mean she is mute! Maybe she can make a list at home and bring it to
church. I just hope she doesn’t mix my sins with hers.
Oh well,
maybe the priests think she can’t commit any sins because she can’t talk. In
any case, she takes communion every Sunday. I bet cannibalism is a big sin, especially
if you own a butcher shop. I mean, you have no excuse, it’s not like you’re
lost and stuck in the North Pole with a bunch of dead friends and nothing to
eat. Plus she’s been an ‘accomplice’ to several murders. I can still remember
her malicious facial gestures when she ‘called’ Ana Suarez “puta” full of
repressed and accumulated anger.
I think her
donations make her an automatic saint. I understand the reasons why I am a cold
hearted killer. I have my excuses, but my grandma, where did she come from? She’s
not ‘pulling the trigger’, but she is as perverse and pernicious as I am.
As for me,
when I come to church, I’m muter than my grandma. I don’t pray and I don’t think.
I have nothing to say. I don’t ask and I don’t give. I know my sins, but I’m
not looking for redemption or absolution. I’m guilty as charged and I know my
place is not in heaven or even in this little church. Give me my punishment and
send me to hell. But not yet, the first thirteen years of my life weren’t so
bad, but then I suffered for twenty years, now let me enjoy the next twenty
years and we’re even. Anyway, I love my grandma and I know we’ll continue to be
together, even after we die.
Before we
exit the church my grandma made us stop at a statue of the Virgin Mary, she
attached some silver Milagros to the hem of the Virgin’s velvet dress. I wonder
what she asked the Virgin for . . . Maybe
more fancy food on the dinner table.
My grandma
is 81 years old, she was born in 1930. She’s been my protector and my friend
all my life. She had sheltered me in her arms in my times of despair and
devastation, which have been many. I was six years old when my mom died, and my
grandma took over since then. She’s a weak soul, but still, in times of need
she comes to my rescue. She knows the story of my life and maybe she knows the
reasons why I turned out the way I am.
Perhaps
because I was concentrating in my own survival, I never learned about her life.
Before we
retired to our rooms, I asked her to tell me about her life and after a long
pause, she sighed and replied with her silent lips: “Mañana”.
In the
morning, she gave me an envelope with a letter written by her.
My story
My mom died
the day I met your grandpa.
The day I
met your grandpa was a sad day. We used to live in El Pueblito, a tiny little
town outside Jerez, Zacatecas, I was eighteen years old. I was crossing the
road holding hands with my mom. We were on our way to the market. It had been raining
for two days; the wet dirt roads had sporadic puddles. We were laughing and
jumping, trying not to get our shoes wet.
Every day was beautiful in that little town for an innocent adolescent girl
like me.
Then
suddenly my mom disappeared from my hands. Poof! She just vanished.
Like a bat
out of hell, a horse galloping at full speed had taken my mom out of my hands.
It all happened in a fraction of a second. Then, when I took hold of my sad
amazement, I saw my mom several yards up ahead on the road lying face down on a
puddle of water. I ran to her and when I turned her over, I knew she was dead,
and then a man in muddy clothing and out of breath arrived to our side, saying
that he was riding that horse and had just thrown him from his mount. I kept
crying disconsolately in the middle of the muddy road with my mom on my lap,
and then I heard a shot, the man had just killed his horse.
A couple of
days later after the funeral, and even though it had been an accident, the man
showed up with five cows and offered them to my dad for the pain he had caused,
and my dad accepted them. They kept talking until dark. The following day he
appeared with ten more cows. A week later, with my dad’s blessings, (orders?) I
married that man. I had no saying in my dad’s decision.
When I said
“I do” my heart was still full of sorrow and pain for the loss of my mom, a
funeral and a wedding took place almost simultaneously, with no time for a
prayer or a honeymoon, no time for tears or celebrations.
That man was
living in California and had come back to look for a wife and he found me, he
was thirty six years old, the year was 1948.
Even then
your grandpa calculated everything in cows. To him I was worth ten cows. I
could have refused and accepted the consequences of my rebellion, but with my
mom gone, I couldn’t stay and besides your grandpa was handsome, tall and
imposing. He seemed like a good man, “a good specimen”, they used to say.
My dad lost
his wife and a daughter, but gained fifteen cows. I lost my mom, but I gained a
husband. My mom lost her life and everything else. I lost my mom because your
grandpa couldn’t ride horses. (He never rode horses again) Those times were in another
century, another world. I was pulled out and uprooted merciless from my simple
and uncomplicated life. I felt the aftershocks for decades. For many years I
felt out of place.
But I
learned to love your grandpa. He was like the desert, strong, hard and untamed.
A stern old fashion man.
More than
forty years later, I was happy for him, when he decided to retire to the same
world where he had met me. He had worked hard all his life, he deserved it, but
I guess God disagreed. I still think your dad killed him.
{Explicaciones
para mi nieto Angelito} Explanations to my grandson Angelito.
Sandra Cortez Lomeli.
The manuscript
was written in Spanish, like drawings of words, elegant and adorned. It must
have taken her all night to write it. A beautiful (and sad) story, which could
have remained untold, had not been for my curiosity.
*I’m still
writing the next chapter. I’ll post it, as soon as I finish with it. I still
don’t know what will happen in the end.
Edmundo
Barraza / Visalia, CA. Nov-27-2012
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