Crux Page 12
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Marco Antonio and Alejandro were near-opposites. Marco had brown hair, walnut-colored skin and the full lips of his mother. He was observant, sensitive, quick to tears. Alejandro was as pale as a Spaniard, his hair more bleached each day. He was carefree and mischievous. He never cried when he injured himself, and he injured himself often. Carolina let his wavy white locks grow long like a girl’s.
One day, Carolina’s brothers offered to take everyone to the cinema. Marco started sobbing for no apparent reason. Carolina was unwilling to forsake this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Go ahead and cry, she said. She followed her brothers out of the house with Alejandro in her arms, leaving her crying boy alone in the house.
When they returned, the front window was shattered. Marco had smashed it with a shoe in a claustrophobic panic. He sat on a wooden bench down the street, palms bloody, staring straight ahead, tears drying on his face. Marco stopped crying after that. He started sleepwalking. At night, as he dreamed, he often walked to that same bench—the one where his tears had stopped flowing. Carolina always knew where to find him if he went missing in the night. He remains a sleepwalker as I write this.
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At work, Irma had met a Mexican man named Pablo. She urged Carolina to consider the butcher. You should accept the carnicero’s invitations, she said. That way, Papi will let me go out with Pablo.
No sé, Irma, Carolina said.
Andale, it will be fun, Irma said. You don’t have to kiss him or anything.
Jesus drove them to a drive-through restaurant. When Carolina mentioned her mother’s work as a live-in nanny, he offered to pick her mother up on Fridays. Maria de Jesus had the weekends free, but didn’t have a car to travel back to Mexico. Jesus obtained visas for himself and Carolina at the consulate, then drove them across the border with Carolina’s two boys in the back seat. He let Carolina roll her window down. Wind in her hair, she turned to look at her sons. Marco Antonio and Alejandro slept peacefully, unaware they had made their first crossing into los Estados Unidos. Carolina felt exhilarated, the way she did when she was surrounded by nature in el campo. In spite of the asphalt here, this place was sprawling, and she could see the sky.
They arrived at a mansion in Rancho Santa Fe. A blonde German woman opened the door. Mi casa es tu casa, said Mrs. Roland-Holst, taking Carolina’s hands in hers. The house was a labyrinth of cavernous rooms and halls. Outside, Maria de Jesus was playing with two angelic blonde girls amid rosebushes and chubby trees. They were fluent in Spanish, thanks to their nanny. Marco Antonio and Alejandro played with them.
Jesus drove Carolina there every Friday. He started taking her sightseeing on Sundays, his only day off. They went to La Presa, the city’s main dam, and to the plazas to buy churros and ride a Ferris wheel. Carolina began to look forward to these outings. Jesus seemed to accept her as a friend. Perhaps he felt a kinship. His own mother had tried to raise him and his sister alone. In the early 1900s, Ramona Guzmán, a freckled eighteen-year-old redhead, had fallen in love with a married merchant named José Guerrero. Ramona bore him two children—Jesus and his little sister, Consuelo—but Mr. Guerrero refused to leave his wife. Heartbroken, Ramona migrated to Tijuana with her children to find work. She married a construction worker, Francisco Maldonado. He padlocked the windows and forced her to sleep naked, to keep her from slipping away to have nocturnal affairs. He beat his stepson without mercy or reason. Ramona bore him four biological children, hoping his new children would distract him. He used Jesus to provide for them. Francisco put Jesus in charge of a herd of goats. Jesus watched the herd behind the house, adjacent to a stretch of border without barriers. The goats crossed into the United States to devour wheat and vegetables, and sometimes Jesus played marbles—his only toy—to pass the time. One day, he looked up from his game to discover some gringos loading his goats onto a truck. He ran toward them, heart bucking in his chest. The men informed Jesus they were confiscating the goats for damage to U.S. property. Francisco nearly cracked Jesus’s skull with a hammer. Streams of blood poured down the boy’s face as Ramona begged Francisco not to kill him.
But Jesus did not resent his stepfather—he respected him. When he was twelve, he helped him build bungalows on the Rosarito coast. Francisco secured Jesus a job at a carnicería mopping floors, scrubbing toilets, preparing chorizo using a special recipe the owner taught him: California pepper, chili powder, cumin, onion and garlic powder. Jesus gave almost every cent to his parents, saving a small percentage for a shoe-shining business. He bought a brush, shoe polish and a footrest to earn extra pesos on weekends.
One day, at the age of seventeen, Jesus was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the carnicería when a drunk pedestrian shoved him. Jesus lost his temper and punched the man. The blow knocked him unconscious. The owner of the carnicería witnessed the impressive force of Jesus’s fist. He encouraged Jesus to enroll in the city’s amateur boxing league. Jesus was reluctant; sports appeared to be a waste of time. But his boss insisted. Jesus agreed to try. He proved to be a natural fighter. His skull seemed tougher than steel. He won municipal championships, then accumulated trophies in states across the country, competing on weekends he could afford to travel. They called him El Chivero—the goat man.
Ramona was begging him to abandon his destructive hobby and start a family when Jesus met Carolina. From his last boxing matches in faraway states, Jesus sent Carolina postcards with short, straightforward messages: “All is going well for now, many hellos, tomorrow I start the championship.”
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Carolina was in the kitchen, as always, when a ceaseless honking perturbed her. She wiped her hands on her apron and threw open the front door, planning to tell the noisy driver to have respect. She froze. Across the street was the father of her children. He was slamming his fists on his claxon. She thought she was going to faint. She couldn’t make her lungs expand to breathe. Ven, he hissed. Come. She found herself taking steps toward his green-and-white taxi, pulled by a monstrous magnetic force she feared she could not fight. She stopped and asked: ¿Qué quieres?
I want to see my sons, he said. Carolina walked into the house with newfound strength. She scooped her sons into her arms, and asked her brother Jaime to follow.
Why did you bring that mocoso?
Oh, did I offend you? Goodbye then.
Carolina turned on her heel. She heard him scrambling out of his car. She clutched her boys against her hips. Jaime sprinted ahead. They ran through the front door, slammed it, locked it. She leaned against a wall as Mario pounded on the door. She was no longer a prisoner. She was free. She was free.
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As Abuela Carolina recalls these moments, she refuses to use Mario’s name, calling him El Hombre Que No Voy A Nombrar. The Man I Will Not Name.
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When Carolina told her father about the incident, Antonio drove to the address of his old business partner, Mateo, Mario’s brother. Days later, a divorce was finalized in civil court. A judge ordered Mario to pay Carolina the equivalent of about ten dollars a week in child support. When he came over to deliver the money, he parked on the opposite side of the street, forcing Carolina to cross to collect it. Once, he tried to drag her into his car. Carolina screamed and slapped, fighting back for the first time. She returned to the house disheveled and out of breath. Her father asked what had happened. The next week, Antonio marched outside to greet the taxi driver with a knife in his fist. He dragged Mario out of the cab, placed the edge of the knife against his gut and informed him he would be more than pleased to kill him if he returned. Carolina never saw him again.
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One afternoon, Carolina’s neighbor Margarita came over to help her cook. Jesus is giving rides to some other girl, she whispered. I’ve seen him do it. Carol
ina felt startling indignation. He picks her up across from the carnicería after work sometimes. Let’s go catch him. They hid under a shady awning near the corner. That’s her! Margarita said, pointing at a made-up brunette. Jesus pulled up next to the girl. She crawled into his vehicle. They kissed passionately. How disgusting, Carolina said. Hurry, let’s pass in front of his car so he sees me. Let’s see what he does.
Elbows interlocked, the girls passed quickly, but it was as if time had slowed. Jesus looked up. His eyes met Carolina’s. His face contorted. He stumbled out of the car. Shouted her name. Carolina kept walking.
That night, music wafted in through the walls. Everyone looked at Antonio. But Antonio hadn’t hired a serenata—he was sober. Irma went to the door. It’s for you, sister! It’s the butcher! Carolina stood up, mortified. Jesus was standing in front of the mariachi with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. Carolina, that girl you saw me with means nothing to me. I was afraid to admit it before, but I love you. I want you to be my wife. She shut the door in his face.
Jesus came back the next day to speak with Antonio. Jesus told him he was willing to provide for Carolina’s two sons. He asked Antonio for his blessing. He’s a good man, Antonio told Carolina. He works hard and he takes you seriously. Why not marry him? You need help.
Her father’s words convinced her, once and for all, that she had been fooling herself. She couldn’t provide for her children alone. She was a woman.
Jesus suggested the civil registry. The thought of once again marrying in such an informal way, outside of the church, made Carolina cringe, but she shook this feeling. I’m not entitled to a ceremony, she thought. I don’t deserve to wear a white dress. The next morning, the couple went to the civil registry with Antonio as a witness. They signed a piece of paper dated December 6, 1960. Jesus was chopping meat at the carnicería again less than an hour later.
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Carolina changed her sons’ last names and told them to call Jesus “Papá.” Marco was four and Alejandro was two. For years, they would believe Jesus was their biological father. She obtained a birth certificate for Marco that said he was born in Tijuana, legally erasing his past in Mexico City. Jesus found an apartment across from the carnicería, with a single bed and a sofa. Where will the boys sleep? Carolina asked. On the sofa, Jesus said. This was not the upgrade she had imagined for her sons. But she didn’t want Jesus to think she was ungrateful. She kept her lips sealed. Quickly, the friendly mood of their relationship altered. Jesus forbade her from going out without him, even to her mother’s. He was at ease only when she was in sight. She was ruled by fear of her dependence; he was ruled by fear of her beauty. Carolina had married him to devote more time to her sons. But she had to make lunch for Jesus and his three brothers separately every day. They took turns crossing the street in bloodstained aprons. Each wanted his food to be hot. Each wanted company as he ate. Carolina cooked first for one, then the other, then the other. One often cracked open books. His food would cool and he would request that she reheat it. She found herself with less free time than ever.
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As she nears eighty, Abuela Carolina has a housekeeper, Julieta, who works part-time, cooking and cleaning. But in the evenings at around 7:30 p.m., after working all day in the Butcher Block, Carolina must serve Jesus his dinner. It is their custom. She pours the frijoles and tinga de pollo that Julieta has made onto a plate, heats it in the microwave, places it in front of her husband. She doesn’t sit down until he has finished, in case he needs anything: more juice, another serving of beans, a slice of cake for dessert. He wants his maíz tortillas to be fresh, so she must walk over to the stove every so often to warm up another. She dines only when he is done. It doesn’t matter how tired she is from counting money all day. “Lo tengo que atender,” she explains.
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In 1961, at the age of twenty-three, Carolina became pregnant with Jesus’s first child. Jesus sought to drown his insecurities in alcohol. At night, he went out to gamble and play cards. He returned reeking of tequila, stumbling over the furniture.
In November, Carolina’s father walked across the border to see a doctor in San Diego. She and her mother went to visit him a day later, not realizing how sick he was. Antonio glared at them. He looked colorless, corpse-like, bloated as a frog. Que ingratas, he croaked. The two women tried to cheer him up, but he was inconsolable. He coughed up blood and pus. Carolina went back to Tijuana. The next day, Jesus answered the phone at the carnicería. He walked across the street to tell Carolina her father was dead. She fell to the floor, remembering his last words to her. Her water broke as she mourned. Carolina’s first child with Jesus was born two days later: Jesus Jr., or Chui.
One night, as she breast-fed Chui, she realized she had nothing to feed her older boys. Jesus had not come home after work. She poured coffee grounds into milk and fed them the mush. The next day, Jesus still hadn’t returned. A storm raged outside. They were out of milk and everything else. Carolina closed Alejandro’s small fists around a dollar she had saved from the sale of a dress. She told him to buy milk and bread. As Alejandro ran in the storm, the wind tore the bill from his hands. The darkness swallowed it whole.
Carolina started smoking cigarettes. She had quit making dresses when she married Jesus, determined to devote herself to domesticity. Now she made several. Carolina planned to spite her husband by looking more beautiful than ever. She would fuel his insecurities on purpose. She took driving classes. She obtained her driver’s license.
Jesus became violent. Don’t you realize how lucky you are to have a husband? he cried. He punched Carolina and threw furniture at her. Carolina defended herself by hurling dishes. Jesus directed his anger at Marco and Alejandro, too—whipping them with his leather cinturón. Most of the time, he acted as if those two boys didn’t exist. Carolina relied on her mother, Maria de Jesus, for money to buy clothing and shoes for Marco and Alejandro. Marco began to suspect that Jesus was not his biological father, and asked his mother to tell him the truth. She refused.
At a family gathering, Jesus didn’t like the flirtatious way Carolina said goodbye to a male cousin, referring to him as papasito. He charged at her like a bull. Marco Antonio stood up to block Jesus’s path. His stepfather hurled him across the room with a single arm. Then he turned toward the crumpled boy. Carolina screamed, scrambling to defend her son. Run, she hissed. Marco stood in time to sprint past the drunken Chivero. Jesus stumbled outside, but the boy had disappeared in the darkness. Marco slept on a dirt road in the cold, curled up, hiding from his stepfather—as Jesus had, once upon a time.
Carolina bought anti-pregnancy ovules and inserted them inside herself two or three at a time. She dreaded having any more children with this volatile man. But when he caught her using contraceptives, he started taking her by force when she least expected it. She got pregnant again.
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Marco Antonio led his brothers on mountain expeditions, searching for snakes and tarantulas to place in empty jars. He built things for his siblings—wagons, chests, slingshots. He lassoed a wild horse in the desert and brought it back home. Carolina watched her son galloping on the stallion. Marco was growing into such a curious, self-sufficient boy. He had lost his fearful nature. He was different from other children: pensive, inventive, intrepid, but also full of love. He regularly told his mother he appreciated her. She sat with him as he did homework, determined not to let his intelligence go to waste. You must do well on your exams; you must not let me down, she said. He nodded. Cuentas conmigo, Mamá, he said, his face totally serious, as if he understood the gravity of her command. She walked him to school, ignoring the frightening men who whistled at her.
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Two days after the birth of the fourth child—another boy, Miguel Angel—Jesus launched his own carnicería in northern Ti
juana. Jesus’s mother, Ramona, insisted that Carolina participate. Carolina stayed up all night conducting inventory as her newborn screamed against her chest. Ramona informed Carolina the couple would move to a warehouse behind the new carnicería. Carolina awoke each morning to work at the shop, just as Jesus returned from drinking to sleep. His siblings took pesos from the cash register and beers from the refrigerators. When she told her husband, he accused her of attempting to sow discord. Ramona complained about her “bad attitude.” Carolina’s brother Joaquin came to visit in a fancy convertible he had purchased in San Diego. He had a green card and was working in El Norte. Come with me to the old house. I’ll help you. She threw her scant belongings in her brother’s vehicle and hopped in with her sons.
Jesus came and begged forgiveness. He bought a house in La Mesa, a new neighborhood on Tijuana’s rural outskirts, far from the carnicería. It was a wooden shack with a single bedroom. It lacked water, electricity, even a toilet. Carolina felt she had won the lottery. It was miles from the matriarch Ramona and the chaos of urban life. And it was hers. For the first time, she had her own space in which to breathe. It reminded her, just a little, of Unión.