“Screw the English.”
“Ulysses.”
260 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p
“Haven’t read it.”
“It’s the greatest novel ever written.”
“Haven’t read it, either. You threw it against the wall, remember?”
“Moby-Dick.” Charlie knew he was wrong even before he
opened his mouth.
“No.”
“It’s a great book.”
“Yeah, groovy.” He only said groovy when he was mocking someone.
“Walden.”
“Novels, Xochil.”
“It’s a great book.”
“Yes, it is,” Gustavo said softly. “Charlie’s right—not a nov-
el.”
“War and Peace.”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“It’s fine. It’s a fine book—but, well, too Russian.”
“Too Russian. That’s stupid, Gustavo.”
“Not the greatest book.”
“The Grapes of Wrath, ” Charlie yelled.
“Yes,” Xochil yelled.
“Wrong.”
“It’s a great book.”
“Yes, it’s a great book. Wrong.”
“Wrong? You’re crazy, Gustavo.”
Charlie loved the outrage in her voice.
“Wrong,” Gustavo repeated.
“How could it be the wrong book? And it’s a proletarian nov-
el.”
“Steinbeck disowned it.”
“He did not.”
xo ch i l . g us t avo. charl ie . l 261
“He did too.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Doesn’t matter—it’s a great novel.”
“A great, great book. But not the greatest.”
“Yeah. And since you’re God, you get to decide. Ulysses, no.
War and Peace, no. Grapes of Wrath, no.”
“Whoever starts the game gets to be God. You know the
rules.”
“Sure. I know the rules. You know, Gustavo, that’s the thing
about you. You hate all the rules—unless you’re the guy making them. There’s a word for that. You know?”
“A word?”
“Duplicitous.”
“Duplicitous,” Gustavo laughed. “Look, Miss Dictionary, I
know the word. And I have to say, it’s not an accurate description of my person.”
Charlie laughed softly to himself. He wanted the game to go
on forever, just so he could lie there and catch their voices as they floated above him. And then suddenly, without even knowing
why, the answer came to him. “Johnny Got His Gun!”
“What?”
“Johnny Got His Gun.”
“How’d you guess that, little guy?”
“Don’t call me that. I hate that, Gus. And don’t get mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Yes, you are.”
“How’d you guess it?”
“Dad confiscated it a couple of weeks ago. He shoved the book
across the table at Mom and said, ‘Do you see what your son is reading? He was a Communist.’ And then Mom said, ‘What are you
talking about? Who was a Communist?’ And then Dad said, ‘Dal-
ton Trumbo.’ And then Mom said, ‘Octavio, finish your coffee.’ ”
262 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p Xochil laughed. “Charlie, when you grow up, you can be a
court reporter.”
“Don’t make fun. I’m just telling you what happened.”
They all broke out laughing again.
“Johnny Got His Gun, ” Xochil repeated. “I’ve never read it.”
“You’ve never read it?” Gustavo couldn’t quite bring himself
to believe her, she who devoured books, she who dreamed them,
she who spoke about them as if they were lovers.
“Never.”
“Read us a section.”
“Mom has it.”
“She does?”
“She’s reading it.”
“Charlie, you’re a spy.”
“I like to know what’s going on.”
“Of course you do. We’re cities on a map. And you’re the fam-
ily cartographer.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Does she like it?”
“I don’t know, Gus, I don’t read minds.”
“I bet you memorized a section.”
“How do you know?”
“You memorize sections of all the books you love. You’ve done
that since you were thirteen. Remember? That’s when you read
Fahrenheit 451.”
“Really, Gus?”
“I just thought it was cool how people became a book.”
“And you’ve tried to memorize books ever since.”
“Without success.”
“Except you always memorize at least one passage.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a habit.”
“Tell us, Gus. Recite the section. Recite it.”
“It’s too sad and it’s too serious and it’s too tragic.”
xo ch i l . g us t avo. charl ie . l 263
“Just like you, Gustavo.”
“Right.”
“Don’t fight it.”
“Tell us, Gus. Let us hear it.”
He hated the pleading in his brother’s voice. “Okay,” he whis-
pered. “But it’s not pretty.”
“Just get on with it.”
“Yeah, Gus.”
The room was quiet for a moment, as if Gustavo was gather-
ing the words, like raking a pile of leaves in a yard. He cleared his throat and then began, his voice just above a whisper: “Put the guns into our hands and we will use them. Give us slogans and we will turn them into realties. Sing the battle hymns and we will take them up where you left off. Not one not ten not ten thousand not a million not ten millions not a hundred million but a billion two billions of us all the people of the world we will have the slogans and we will have the hymns and we will have the guns and we will use them and we will live. Make no mistake we will live. We will be alive and we will walk and talk and eat and sing and laugh and feel and love and bear our children in tranquility in security in decency in peace. You plan the wars you masters of men plan the wars and point the way and we will point the gun.”
The room was quiet for a long time. All three of them lying in the stillness, Gustavo’s whispers echoing in the room.
“ ‘And we will point the gun,’ ” Xochil repeated. “That’s the
saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
adam
Da Nang, Vietnam, September 18, 1967
Dear Mom,
It’s not raining today and it looks like it might be clear most of the day. I think I’ll go to the beach. A day at the beach—how about that, Mom? I slept in. Guess I was just really tired from our mission. Being out there really makes me tired, have to be alert, you know? When I finish writing this letter, I’m going to take a long hot shower—another one! When we got back to the
base, that’s the first thing I did, took a shower. Now, I’m going to take another one. You’re going to have one clean Marine of a son, Mom, I’ll tell you that.
Did I tell you that I’m growing a mustache? How about
that? What do you think? When it grows in, I’ll send you a
picture.
adam l 265
Maybe later in the afternoon, I’ll go over to the PX and buy
some cigarettes. They’re cheap, so that’s good, something I can afford. Not that I have anything to spend my money on, not
really. And listen, Mom, I know you said I shouldn’t be sending you my hard-earned money, but listen, Mom, I want to help you
out. I know it’s been hard since Dad died, and I know you have a pretty decent job typing letters and fil
ing and all that for those lawyers, but still, Bobby and Tom and Mike, they need stuff. I know how that goes. I don’t want them to do without. I can’t
make them rich, but, you know, every bit helps. Just tell them to keep up their studies. I know I’m one to talk, but I did finish high school, at least I did that, and I plan on going on to college after my tour here, tell them that. Especially Bobby. I know he’s chomping at the bit to join up—but he’s just fifteen and he’s
the smart one. Everyone knows that. Tell him that maybe he
can get a job this summer and start saving some money to go to college. Tell him to get some use out of the brain God gave him.
Then later, he can tend to this Marine thing or his army thing or whatever hell branch he damn well chooses. By that time, this war will be long over, and he can give Uncle Sam his due in a
nice office in Germany or Belgium.
Did you know that they have a big base in Belgium? It’s
called SHAPE, the Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Powers
in Europe. Did you know that? Belgium. They say it rains there all the time. That’s what I hear. Just like the monsoon season here in Nam. I’ll tell you what, Mom, I sure am getting to hate the rain. Remember, when I was a kid, how I used to like to go and play out in the rain, and Dad would tell me I didn’t have any sense in me. Not an ounce of sense. Well, I’m still playing in the rain. Only now it’s pretty serious playing.
Look, Mom, tell Bobby and Tom and Mike to be good to
each other. Tell them that their big brother’s doing just fine and that when I come home, I expect them to buy me the biggest
root beer in the state of Texas.
266 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p God, I miss root beer.
I know you’re praying for me. Keep those candles going over
at St. Patrick’s.
Love,
Adam
He sealed the envelope.
He didn’t tell her about their wounded.
He didn’t tell her about his dreams.
He didn’t tell her that he sometimes smoked weed when he
went to the beach at night.
He didn’t tell her that he’d been so cold that when he was
under the hot shower he’d almost cried. Hell, he had cried. What the hell was wrong with him?
He didn’t tell her that already he’d heard talk that they were going out on patrol again and that the next patrol sounded a
lot more serious. Accompanying convoys was always more seri-
ous. And word was, this was supposed to be something big, this convoy. If a grunt like him knew that, then the enemy knew it
too. At least that’s how he figured it. They would attract a lot of attention.
No, he didn’t tell her.
In her last letter, she had asked about Whit and Salvi. He
hadn’t had the heart to tell her that Salvi was back stateside—getting used to life without legs. It was a mistake to tell his mother about his friends. When something happened to them, what was
he supposed to tell her? He wouldn’t mention his friends any-
more. It was better that way.
You had to be careful what you said to your mom.
lourde s
She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there. In the dark.
Only the light of a candle burning in the room. On Rosario’s bed, sitting, trembling. And trembling not because she was cold but because her anger completely owned her now.
She tried to calm herself by watching the flame of the flickering candle.
She stared at the letter she’d found in her son’s shirt pocket.
She wanted to rip the letter to pieces and swore she could do the same to the men who sent it. Rip them, rip them all to pieces.
She rocked and rocked herself and found something, at last,
to comfort her—the fact that her son had thought about these
things, had thought and thought about them. Perhaps he’d found no solutions, but he had refused to think of the war as something graceful and noble and inevitable. He had refused to be like so many young men, ardent and enthusiastic for war as if war—
any war—was some kind of game that would transform them
268 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p into virtuous and valiant creatures, ardent, yes, so many boys so desperate for glory because they did not know how to look into themselves and discover their own beauty and value and so they looked for their virtues in places where it could never be found, places that twisted and callused their hearts.
Another woman would convince him to go and do his duty,
convince him it was right to serve his country. Another mother would beg him to don the uniform and tell him with a straight
face how handsome he looked. Another woman would pull him
to the side and say to him: What does it matter if you believe or don’t believe? Go. It will not be long before you come back to us. Another woman would swallow her heart and her mind and her tongue
and stand by and watch her son be taken, watch him come back
in a casket, accept a flag with the words from a grateful nation.
o c t avio. lourde s .
Octavio found her sitting in his mother’s room. “You’re sitting in the dark.”
“The candles all burned out.” She slipped Gustavo’s letter un-
der the pillow. “I don’t mind the dark.”
“I went to bed. I was waiting.” He turned on the small lamp
next to the bed.
“The room still smells of her.”
He nodded.
“It’s so quiet.”
“I’m sorry I was harsh with Gustavo.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “There’s time to make it right.”
“Yes, amor, there’s time.”
“Imagine, Octavio. Imagine her voice gone from this world
forever. Never to be duplicated. A whole sound gone. Extinct. A
270 l a n d t h e w o r l d d i d n o t s t o p song never to be heard again. What if all the birds died, Octavio, what we would do without their songs?”
“Lourdes, the birds are still singing.”
“For how long?”
He sat next to her on the bed and wiped her tears. He gen-
tly pulled her toward him and felt her sobs echoing against his chest.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.
“I know,” she said, her sobs becoming a soft laugh. She pulled away from him and stared at his smile. Why was his familiar
smile so strange, so foreign?
“Let’s get some rest.”
“God, I’ve never, never been this tired.”
He kissed her eyes.
“Octavio?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not careless with words.”
“No, I don’t think you are. No one should be careless with
words.”
“But sometimes we are. And you, amor, you’re more careless than I am.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because you are.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“You said I was an ingrate.”
“That’s not what I said. I said you were talking like an in-
grate.”
“I was not talking like an ingrate. I am not an ingrate.”
“You make too much of what I said. You’re misinterpreting.
I wasn’t assaulting your character, amor. I meant only that this country has been good to us—and that we should be more conscious of—”
“I am not an unconscious human being. And I know what you
o c t avio. lourde s . l 271
meant. I am not an ingrate, Octavio. I want you to understand
that.”
“All right then, you’re not an ingrate.”
“Don’t humor, me.”
“I want to hum
or you.”
“I want you to understand.”
“I do. I do understand.”
“You don’t.”
“Amor—”
“I am not an ingrate.”
“Let’s go to bed. You’re tired. We’re both tired.”
“I mean it, Octavio. I would rather be called a Communist
than be called an ingrate. Do you understand?”
g us t avo
You wake. But there is too much of yesterday in the new day,
and your head is throbbing. It is the pain of knowing that your grandmother’s voice is gone, the pain of knowing that forever is permanent, unfathomable; it is the pain of knowing that a letter from the government has changed the course of your life; it is the pain of facing the sham of having spent hours and hours in a bar with nothing to keep you company but a pack of cigarettes and
bottles and bottles of beer.
The light of the day is in the room.
Your sister is gone. She is back in her room or she is awake
and doing the things that people do, the people who are alive. She has always been alive. For that sister whom you love, the world is an altar where she places her offerings—her laughter, her rage, her intelligence, her tears. And your brother, he, too, is gone. He, too, has risen. He, too, is alive—alive with all that generosity and gratitude. You smile. You see him when he was four as he turned
g us t avo l 273
to you and said, “Look at the bird, Gus!” He took your hand and made you bend so he could whisper in your ear, “Is it okay, Gus, to thank Jesus for the birds?”
You envy them. The pain of that envy is worse than the throb-
bing in your head.
Only you remain in your bed. Only you remain in your room.
What will happen now? You hold that question. You repeat it.
Then repeat it again and again.
You wonder about your grandmother and you suddenly whis-
per to yourself, She’s lucky. She’s dead now. She’s earned her rest.
But you have not earned yours. You are eighteen years old. You have not known pain or suffering. You have had sex with only
four girls—and one of them you loved. You loved, you loved that girl. And you remember how you lost her and how you hated the pain that resided in your heart. That is the only loss you know.
That is your only loss? So what do you know? You see the way
your father always looks at you—that accusation in his eyes.