Rise Do Not Be Afraid Read online

  “He will come right before the sun.” Virginia’s announcement almost made Elle smile.

  There were no clocks in the house, but everything in the world was silent. Outside, only the approaching snow moved, and Aresando was born that morning of Palm Sunday right before the sun rose above the Sangre de Cristos and right as the snow began to fall.

  “He’s not crying. He’s not crying. Dime, what’s wrong.”

  “He is breathing fine. He is healthy, but you should know this one will not cry.”

  Virginia tied the boy’s umbligo into a knot and called for Samuel. He came into the room shriveled and soaked from the steam, but he smiled and ran out of the room. He returned with three bags in his left hand. One by one he transferred them to his right and handed them to Virginia. The first was a bag of piñon, the second filled with beans.

  “The piñon is already done Mana Virginia, and I already cleaned the beans, no rocks, no bad ones. They are ready to eat, both of them are ready to eat. Well not the beans, those need cooking, but they’re clean. Tu Sabes, ready.”

  The third bag was the smallest. It made the noise of coins that had been saved for nine months.

  “It is all we have for now, but I can get more.”

  “No te fijas Samuel, con los frijoles voy contenta.”

  “He’s not crying.” Samuel had finally noticed.

  “This one will not cry Samuel, but he is fine.”

  “Never cry? Pues my boy will be a real man.”

  “No. A real man will look after his wife after a long night. This one is just a baby. He will learn from you how to be a man. He just won’t cry.”

  Virginia was right. There was nothing wrong with Aresando, his eyes pooled when the wind blew or when sleep was coming, but he never once cried.

  Aresando fell in love. Her name was Malinche Santistevan-Matthews. She had green eyes. Everyone in Santa Rita had brown eyes, but hers were green and she knew that made her destined to be lucky. She told everyone that she was a descendant of royalty. The king of Spain had sent them here because the king loved them. Malinche Santistevan-Matthews only repeated what her father told her.

  Ponce Santistevan-Matthews had sold everything early on. The land was not for royalty to work, so he sold everything to his father-in-law, Ambrose Benedict-Matthews whose family had arrived from Chicago in 1878, when Ambrose was five. Ambrose Benedict-Matthews agreed with Ponce Santistevan-Matthews, royalty or the descendants of royalty should not have to work. Ambrose Benedict-Matthews bought 1000 acres from Ponce for $917.00. To sweeten the pot, Ambrose Benedict-Matthews also promised Ponce Santistevan the hand of his daughter, his only child, making sure that as part of the deal Ponce Santistevan would take the Matthews name too, because it is Mexican tradition he said, and for posterity too. For posterity, Ambrose Benedict-Matthews wasted no time fencing his new land. That was 1926, and because Ponce Santistevan would no longer need it, he took Ponce’s water, also for posterity.

  So Aresando loved the green-eyed future queen of Spain and would do anything to impress her. He didn’t care that every boy in school loved her too. He didn’t care that Ponce’s house was made of wood and nails, that it had five rooms and you didn’t have to eat in the kitchen. He didn’t care that Malinche Santistevan-Matthews was already planning to leave Santa Rita for a city that suited her place in the order of things. Aresando Vargas would not cry for Malinche Santistevan-Matthews, but he was brave enough to do anything else.

  Bravery. That’s what Ulises Urea noticed first in Aresando Vargas.

  Santa Rita sat in a long and deep canyon cut by an ancient river of ice, now melted to a river that flowed east toward the Rio Grande. The canyon was deep, flanked by two tall mesas. There was no T.V. reception in Santa Rita. Most news traveled like it always had, by word of mouth, from one man to the next, usually originating with Samuel who had heard it from the crickets. It was the crickets that told Samuel that Aresando was going to join the Marines, to impress a girl.

  “Your son is brave sir. I watched him on the football field. Nothing slows him down. Helluva blitzer, excuse my language sir, but that is what we need, brave blitzers.”

  “Blitz ni Blitz. I’ve heard from…” Samuel paused here to let himself acknowledge his company and determine that this recruiter would not understand the crickets as a reputable source. “I’ve heard in the papers about your war.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, your son is quite intelligent. Someone with his brains would most likely work with electronics. He’d be totally safe.”

  “Now he is smart. You said brave before. Don’t think I don’t know how the government works. Look around you Sergeant Urea. You know why the roads glitter in the sun? I’ll tell you. They glitter because that is how you trick us, with glitter. Mira que shiny you say. Look, todo esto, all this glittered away from us, y pa que, a little feria, a little gold. Now you want my son. You glitter him with gold you wear on your sleeves.”

  “Sir, he will be defending our country, representing the United States of America, representing Santa Rita. He’ll make you proud.”

  “I’ve been proud since 1932. No gold bars made of lana gonna make me more proud.”

  “Sir, your son has already signed. He wants to go.”

  Samuel turned to Aresando. His face was blank, but his eyes spoke first. Signed?

  “You signed?”

  “Si papá.”

  “How many times I told you. Never sign anything. Ink don’t get you nothing mijo. I know. Mira.” He pointed toward Santa Rita. “Ink will dry and anything dry is poor.”

  “I want to go papá.”

  “For a girl who thinks she is a princess?”

  “That’s not why.”

  “See, you sign something and already you are lying to your familia.”

  “I already signed.”

  “We can kill him, throw him in the river, burn that paper.”

  Ulises Urea had stood up in case he had to defend himself. He was an average sized man, gone from his family for ten years. He no longer knew how to interpret a father’s plea. He only heard threats and only knew to respond with fire.

  Apollonio was playing his crooked guitar when Aresando walked into the cantina. There wasn’t a lot of smoke, so everything seemed clear in the kerosene light of five faroles. Dionicio was behind the bar. Aresando ordered two whiskeys and a glass of water. Rafael Trujillo had come in behind Aresando and took his seat at the piano. No one knew who played better, Apollonio or Rafael. Together they played beautifully, old songs that no one knew the words to, songs that were like history or a newspaper you happen upon many years later, one you saved for some reason you can’t remember but recognize and still read for its truth. Both men began to play, but Aresando hardly listened. In truth he preferred Nomio’s guitarra de los dos cuernos. Nomio’s guitarra de los dos cuernos was in the corner as Apollonio and Rafael played something slow and full of pain.

  Aresando finished his second whiskey and ordered another. He felt nothing, completely normal, as he walked over to Apollonio who had just finished playing his crooked guitar. Apollonio had been in many wars. He was the best shot in Santa Rita.

  “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “Not always, but you are now.”

  “Do you think that God watches over us?”

  “You are still alive. That must mean something.”

  “But I’m not right anymore.”

  “You weren’t meant to stay right. You are something else now.”

  “You know those five mud nests outside under the techo. You think God watches those five birds and their babies?”

  “They are still alive.”

  “If I went out there right now and broke those nests would God still be watching over them?”

  “I suppose if killing those five sparrows made you feel better, then I believe he would be watching over you.”

  Mark Well How the Lilies Grow

  Dear Nonnatusia,

  Hello, how are you?


  Dear Nonnatusia,

  Hello, how are you?

  Dear Nonnatusia,

  Hello, how are you?

  Dear Nonnatusia,

  Do you remember in the 5th grade when Mrs. Trujillo read to us from that German poet’s book? She said he died in 1926. I remember because that was the year I was born. You too, we were in the same grade, except your birthday is August 31st. I remember because they announced it in church. I write stuff like that down.

  Anyway, Mrs. Trujillo told us he died of something in his blood. Do you remember that poem about the lion in a cage? That’s not really what I’m writing about, but I remember when the German poet was dying, he got a letter from a woman. The letter said that the German was not her favorite poet. That doesn’t seem nice, you know, because he was dying and it hurt, but she said something like this. You are not my favorite poet. You are poetry.

  I hope you are still reading this. I remember all that stuff because it was the first day I really noticed you, February 23rd. I remember thinking that the German was poetry and he had something in his blood. I remember because there was something in my blood that day, like when the river gets full and cold, like that. Anyway, Mrs. Trujillo told us a lot that day, but I only remember the German because I felt like that lion in the poem, the one in the cage, and since then you have been love to me the way that German was poetry to the lady who sent the letter. So I guess I know I have felt this way for almost six years now, and you know that a full river, if it is full too long, washes away the land. So, what do you think? Do you maybe think I can come by and see you sometime?

  Love Your Forever,

  With Affection Admiration

  Ramon

  Dip the Tip of Your Finger in Water and Cool My Tongue

  It was one of those stars that pulses like a heart that is going out, slow and red. Enos watched the stars. He didn’t know their names, but he knew their turning, their passage through the night. He had one son, a boy, Pelayo, four years old, born in 1874 during a November like this one. The star was in the south, above San Antonio Mountain. It pulsed like a slow heart; he knew they would be tired.

  The bueyeros all looked hungry when they arrived. There were thirteen families. Seventy-four people in all. Enos had seen others, but none this hungry, none this late in the year.

  The star in the south had throbbed all summer. The lirios and the grass in his meadow had grown thick this year. Apollonio had told him that they would be coming and what they would want. Enos had twenty-two cows. Apollonio had fifty, but he would not share them. He believed that they prayed to another god. The red star was almost gone for the winter when they arrived. For a week before they arrived, Enos kept his knife sharp.

  In one hand he carried a bucket, and, in his right, a single shot rifle his father had given him. The base of the cottonwood was stained black and the branch that they used had a groove burned into it by the rope.

  There was no green in the meadow, but the steer ran into the field anyway, grazing on the brown grass. Enos had attached his tiro de caballos to the wagon and guided them next to the steer. From the seat he again took up the bucket and the single shot. He carried them in the same hands as before. When the animal looked up, it finally noticed it was alone, turning its head toward the twenty-one still locked in the corral. Beyond the corral to the east three of the women from the wagons and Enos’ wife, Cirila, were making a fire. Pelayo and two of the wagon boys were trying to catch smoke in their small hands. Enos checked the wagon’s brake with his eyes. Two of the bueyeros had come to hold the horses. On the west side of the field there were four others, waiting at the tree. From the direction of the smoke, two others walked slowly toward the steer. From the corral the steer’s mother was bramando and the dark red novillo with the white face answered his mother. Enos whistled, the rifle already at his shoulder. The novillo turned toward him and then fell before the echo of the bala came back. Enos placed the bucket at the steer’s neck and cut to the jugular with the knife he had kept sharp for a week. The novillo’s heart was still beating; the blood gushed into the bucket. The novillo’s legs began to move. He was running. The bullet had gone directly into the brain. It was his heart telling him to run, but he only thrashed there in the gold grass. Each of the Bueyeros took a leg and held it, cutting crosswise the tendon where the leg met the hoof. The novillo quit running and its open neck sucked at the air. Enos rose from his bucket of blood and went to each leg. With his own knife he cut vertically. He smiled at one of the men.

  “Four crosses,” he said in English.

  The man smiled back and then all five of them pulled the limp novillo onto the wagon. They took the novillo to the stained tree. From the wagon, Enos and the man who smiled lifted the steer while the seven on the ground pulled the rope tied to the steer’s hind leg. They tied the rope off and two of the bueyeros took the wagon back to the corral and unhitched the horses. One of them unlatched the gate and the steer’s mother ran to the blood-spattered grass. The other cows followed her until they got the scent. All of them ran, bucking and bramando to the far end of the field. By spring all of the cows would stain the tree, they could not have known that then. Only humans walk toward the scent of death, and all the cows would be wild until the scent left them. As they bucked by, the novillo hung from the tree. Its steaming organs and stomach were piled on the blood wet-hide, laid flat beneath the steer’s dead eyes.

  The bueyeros from Mississippi thanked Enos profusely as they ate around the fire. They promised to repay him, and he accepted their offer, sure that one day his family might be lost too, or hungry or thirsty.

  Apollonio sang alone in the cantina that night. He sang his corrido about the steer that was sacrificed. Apollonio did not even bother to change the names. The news traveled from the cantina that night. His song went like this:

  Era el día veintiuno de Noviembre

  Cuando llegaron los muertos de hambre

  En su vegita, el Enos los dio lo que puedia dar

  Y los bueyeros decidieron que lo iban a repostar

  Pero como la sangre dentro las raíces del Alamo

  La vida de ese novillo está conectada a ti y yo

  Cuando llega la primavera el Enos no va tener ni una vaca

  Y nuestra vida que se cambia tanto, otra vez se retraca

  Gente de Santa Rita no firma nada de ellos

  En el nombre de Dios te van a sacar tu cuello

  No son mala gente, pero piensan que ustedes necesitan salvacion

  Pero las cosas necesarias por vida ya los tienes en su corazón.

  He Viewed the Town and Wept Over It

  Nineteen fifty-five was the last good year. Ponce sold in 1926, but the devil did not come into Santa Rita until New Year’s Eve, 1955. He was dressed in white, and the women came to him asking to dance. He had made himself into a big man. His left hand was ringed with gold. Only Nomio had shinier shoes. Everyone was there.

  From a corner of the Rio Lounge you could hear pins falling at the end of the bowling lane. Each time a ball was hurled the children would run to the end of the lane to replace the pins on the faded red dots. The children were the only ones that did not notice when the devil walked into El Rio Lounge. They did not see how the Schlitz bar light attached its neon redness to him and followed him as he walked toward the center of the room. They did not see their mothers turn or hear Apollonio when he missed a note on his crooked guitar. Nomio noticed the devil’s shoes, followed them as he played his guitarra de los dos cuernos. Many said that Rafael Trujillo did not notice the devil because he was leaning into his piano, his face inches from the keys, but Rafael noticed that the light shifted and saw something red reflected in the keys of his treble hand.

  It was the last good year and Malinche Santistevan-Matthews knew it. She hadn’t left after school like she had planned. She only needed for a man like this one to take her from Santa Rita and its adobe buildings with tin roofs, from its dirt roads and cold winters. The man was light skinned but not like the bueye
ros. Malinche Santistevan-Matthews was the first to ask him to dance. He was tall and her head rested on his thick chest. Her hair smelled of lilac and store-bought soap. His chest carried the scent of clothes hung out on a line, but deeper down Malinche Santistevan-Matthews believed he smelled of smoke, the clean kind that people walk into willingly. He smelled of burning aloe wood, but Malinche Santistevan-Matthews could not have known that.

  The two guitar players were not afraid of him. Neither had a reason to be. They played and watched without fear as Malinche Santistevan-Matthews refused to let one of the bueyeros wives cut in. The song ended. Three pins echoed to the floor of the bowling lane. A little girl giggled at the poor shot and two boys raced each other to collect the three pins and place them on their marks.

  The man danced well, smooth as a leaf on moving water. All the men stood at the bar, each posturing, each afraid of the man in the white suit. One of them mumbled that they could all take him. He motioned for the men to grab their bottles. The man in the perfectly white suit, even through Rafael’s piano and the tumbling bowling pins heard him and looked over from the dance floor. All the men turned from his stare as their wives lined up to dance.

  Perhaps he would have been fine, dancing all night, a different woman every song, but the devil is like bad water and will pour in through the weakest spots. He should have never danced with Malinche Santistevan-Matthews twice.

  The mark of a brave man is that he is ultimately afraid. The difference between the brave man and those standing at the edge of the dance floor was that Aresando Vargas was also angry. His body was the place where two rivers meet, the place where two waters meet and swirl. His body was two rivers that rose where they met and then flowed away with only one name. The greater water always kept its name.