“Let’s see now, who was it?” the teacher asked, wearing a false smile that looked as if it were pasted to her teeth. “There is nothing to be ashamed of; it was an accident, it could happen to anyone. . . . Who was it?”
“I did not dirty my pants, and my brother didn’t either, I swear it!” Judy shouted defiantly. A chorus of jeers and snickers met her declaration.
The teacher leaned over and whispered in Gregory’s ear that he should leave the classroom, but he held on to the desk with both hands, with his head buried between his shoulders and his eyelids clamped shut, red with shame. The teacher tried to lead him out by one arm, gently at first and then tugging and pulling, but the boy clung to his seat with the strength of desperation.
“Váyate a la chingada!” Judy howled at the teacher in her newly acquired Spanish. “This school is a shitpile!” she added in English.
The teacher was stunned, and the class fell silent. “Chingada, chingada, chinnnngada! Let’s go, Greg,” and the two Reeveses walked from the classroom hand in hand, she with her head high and he with his glued to his chest.
Judy took Gregory to a gas station, hid him among some oil drums, and managed to hose down his trousers without anyone’s seeing them. They walked home in silence.
“Well, how did it go?” Nora Reeves asked, puzzled to see them back so soon.
“The teacher said we don’t have to come back. We’re much more intelligent than the other students. Those runny-nosed little kids don’t even speak like real people, Mama. They don’t know English!”
“What kind of talk is that?” Olga interrupted. “And why are Gregory’s clothes wet?”
The result was that they returned to school the next day, herded by Olga, who marched them into the classroom and made them apologize to the teacher for the insults; for good measure, Olga warned the other children that they had better think twice before bothering the Reeveses. As she left, she faced the compact mass of brown-skinned students, flashing the curse sign: fist closed, with the index and little fingers pointed like horns. Her bizarre appearance, her Russian accent, and her gesture had the effect of calming the beasts, at least for a while.
A week later, Gregory turned seven. No one celebrated; in fact, no one remembered, because the family’s attention was focused on his father. Olga, the only one who went every day to the hospital, brought the news that Charles Reeves was finally out of danger and had been transferred to a ward where they could visit him. Nora and Inmaculada Morales scrubbed the children till they glowed, dressed them in their best clothes, put ribbons in the girls’ hair and slicked down the boys’ with pomade. They set out for the hospital in a procession, carrying small bunches of daisies from the garden and a platter of Inmaculada’s chicken tacos and refried beans with cheese. The room was as big as a hangar, with identical rows of beds on either side and an endless corridor down the center; they tiptoed along until they reached the patient’s bed. The name Charles Reeves written on a card allowed them to identify him; otherwise they would never have recognized him. He was a stranger to them: he had aged a thousand years, his skin was waxen, his eyes had sunk in their sockets, and he smelled of almonds. The children, crushed together, elbow-to-elbow, stood holding their flowers, not knowing where to put them. Flushing, Inmaculada Morales covered the platter of tacos with her shawl, as Nora Reeves began to tremble. Gregory had a presentiment that something irreparable had happened in his life.
“He’s much better, he’ll be able to eat soon,” Olga said, adjusting the intravenous needle in his arm.
Gregory retreated back down the corridor, raced down the stairs two at a time, and ran toward the street. At the hospital gate, he curled up in a ball, head between his knees, arms around his legs, repeating chingada, chingada, like a litany.
As immigrants from Mexico arrived, they descended on friends or relatives, where often several families were already crowded together. The laws of hospitality were inviolable; no one was denied a roof and food during the first days, but after a while each person was to fend for himself. They streamed in from towns south of the border, looking for work, with nothing to their names but the clothes on their backs, a bundle over their shoulders, and the will to get ahead in that Promised Land where, they had been told, money grew on trees and a clever man could become an impresario with his own Cadillac and a blonde on his arm. What they had not been told, however, was that for each success, fifty were left by the wayside and another fifty went back home defeated, nor did they realize that they themselves would not benefit but were destined to open the way to the children and grandchildren born on that hostile soil. They had no idea of the hardships of exile, how they would be abused by their employers and persecuted by authorities, how much effort it would take to reunite their family, to bring their children and old people, or how great would be the pain of telling their friends goodbye and of leaving their dead behind. Neither were they warned that they would quickly lose their traditions, or that recollections would corrode and leave them without memories. There was no way they could have foreseen that they would be the lowest of the low. But even had they known, they might still have undertaken the voyage north. Inmaculada and Pedro Morales called themselves “wire-cuttin’ wetbacks” and, rocking with laughter, liked to tell how many times they had crossed the border, sometimes swimming the Rio Grande and other times cutting wire fences. They had returned to their native land several times on vacation, entering and leaving with children of all ages and even the grandmother, whom they had brought from her village after she was widowed and her mind had begun to fade. After several years they obtained legal papers, and their children were born as American citizens. There was always room at the Morales table for new arrivals, and the second generation grew up hearing stories of poor devils who crossed the border hidden like contraband in the false bottom of a truck, or who jumped from moving trains or crawled underground through old sewer pipes, always with the terror of being caught by the immigration officers, the feared “Migra,” and sent back to their country in fetters after being booked as criminals. Some were shot by the guards or died from hunger and thirst; others smothered to death in the secret compartments of vans run by the “coyotes,” whose business it was to transport desperate people from Mexico to a town on the other side. At the time Pedro Morales made his first trip, Latinos still had the feeling they were reclaiming territory that had always been theirs. For them, slipping across the border was not a crime but a righteous adventure. Pedro Morales had been twenty then; he had just completed his military service, and as he did not want to retrace the footsteps of his father and grandfather, impoverished campesinos on a hacienda in Zacatecas, he decided to make the trip north. He went as far as Tijuana, where he hoped to get a contract as a bracero and work in the fields, because North American agriculturists needed cheap labor. Since he had no money, however, he could not wait for the formalities or bribe officials and police; neither did he like that town of transients, where, in his view, men lacked honor and women respect. He was tired of beating the bushes for work, and he did not want to ask for help or accept charity. Finally he decided to cross the cattle fence marking the border; he cut the wires with pliers and, following the directions of a friend with more experience, started walking straight toward the sun. That was how he had found himself in southern California. The first months were very difficult; it was not as easy to earn a living as he had been told. He went from farm to farm, picking fruit and beans and cotton, sleeping on the road, in train stations, in car graveyards, living on bread and beer, sharing adversity with thousands of men in the same situation. The bosses paid less than they had promised and at the least complaint went to the police, who were always on the lookout for illegal aliens. It was a long time before Pedro could establish himself in one place; the “Migra” was on his heels, but finally he discarded his sombrero and huaraches, adopted blue jeans and a wool cap, and learned to reel off a few phrases in English. As soon as he was situated in the new land, he went back to his vil
lage to get his childhood sweetheart. Inmaculada was waiting for him, with her wedding gown starched and ready.
“The gringos are all crazy: they put peaches on meat and jam on fried eggs; they take their dogs to the beauty parlor and don’t believe in the Virgin Mary; men wash the dishes inside the house and women wash the cars outside on the street, wearing a bra and short shorts that show everything. But if we don’t have anything to do with them, we can live the good life,” Pedro reported to his betrothed.
They were married with the customary ceremonies and fiestas; they slept their first night as man and wife in Inmaculada’s parents’ bed—on loan for the occasion—and the next day caught the bus north. Pedro had a little money in his pocket and was already expert at crossing the border; he was in better shape than he had been the first time but just as scared, because he did not want to expose his wife to any danger. People were telling hair-raising stories of thefts and killings by bandits, of corrupt Mexican police and mistreatment by American police, stories to serve as warning to the most macho of men. Inmaculada, in contrast, walked happily one step behind her husband, protected against bad fortune by the scapulary of the Virgin of Guadalupe, with the bundle of her belongings balanced on her head, a prayer on her lips, and her eyes wide open to see the world that lay before her like a magnificent coffer overflowing with surprises. She had never been outside her village and did not have any idea that roads could go on forever. Nothing could dampen her spirits, not humiliation, nor fatigue, nor the snares of nostalgia, and when finally she found herself with her husband in a squalid room in a boardinghouse on the other side, she thought she had crossed the threshold of heaven. A year later their first child was born; Pedro obtained a job in a Los Angeles tire factory and took a night course in mechanics. To help her husband, Inmaculada took work in a garment factory and then worked as a domestic servant until the number of pregnancies and babies forced her to stay home. The Moraleses were orderly people, without vices; they saved their money and learned to take advantage of the benefits of the country where they would always be foreigners but where their children would belong. Their door was open at all times to offer shelter; their house became a kind of stepping-stone for new immigrants. Today, you; tomorrow, me, Inmaculada always said. There’s a time to give and a time to receive, that’s the natural law of life. They learned that generosity is returned in many ways, they did not lack for good fortune or work, their children were healthy and their friendship valued, and with time they worked their way out of the poverty of their origins. Five years after arriving in the city, Pedro set up his own automobile repair shop. At the time the Reeveses came to live in their patio, they were the most respected family in the barrio. Inmaculada had become a universal mother figure, and Pedro was consulted as being the most levelheaded member of the community. In surroundings where no one ever dreamed of going to the police or to court to resolve a conflict, Pedro acted as arbiter in misunderstandings and as judge in disputes.
Olga was at least partly right. A month after the operation, Charles Reeves walked out of the hospital on his own two feet, but his hope of hitting the road again was out of the question; it was obvious that he had a long convalescence ahead of him. The doctor had ordered tranquillity, a special diet, and lifelong self-restraint; he was not even to consider a nomadic life for a very long time, perhaps years. Everything the family had saved had been exhausted long ago, and they owed a sizable sum to the Moraleses. Pedro would not listen to a word about money, because he owed his Maestro a spiritual debt impossible to repay. Charles Reeves, however, was not a man to accept charity, not even from a good friend and disciple, nor could they continue to camp in the patio of someone else’s house, so despite the pleas of his children, who could see their hope of escaping the oppression of school rapidly slipping away, the sign and the loudspeaker were removed and the truck was sold. With the money from the sale and a bit more from loans, the Reeveses were able to buy a run-down cottage on the edge of the Mexican barrio.
The Moraleses mobilized their relatives to help rebuild the shack. For Gregory Reeves, that weekend formed an indelible memory: Latin music and food would be forever linked with the concept of friendship. Early Saturday morning there appeared a caravan of assorted vehicles—from a pickup truck driven by Inmaculada’s brother, a hefty man with a contagious smile, to a column of bicycles carrying cousins, nephews, and friends, all loaded down with tools and construction materials. The women set up temporary tables in the yard and rolled up their sleeves to cook for the crowd. Heads of chickens rolled, cuts of pork and beef rose in a pile, corn, beans, and potatoes bubbled in pots, tortillas toasted, knives danced, chopping, slicing, and peeling, trays of fruit glistened in the sunlight, and in the shade sat more trays, holding chopped tomato and onion, hot salsa, and guacamole. Enticing aromas escaped from the kettles, tequila and beer flowed from carafes and bottles, and guitars sang with the rhythms of the generous land on the far side of the border. Little boys and dogs raced among the tables; little girls, very grown-up, helped set the tables; a retarded cousin with a placid Asiatic face washed dishes; the moonstruck grandmother ensconced beneath a tree added to the chorus with a voice like a song finch. Olga served tacos to the men and kept the children in line. Through the entire weekend, far into the night, everyone worked happily under the direction of Charles Reeves and Pedro Morales, sawing, nailing, and welding. It was a binge of sweat and song, and by Monday the house had reinforced walls, windows on proper hinges, sheets of zinc on the roof, and a new plank floor. The Mexicans took down the tables of their feasting, packed up their tools, guitars, and children, climbed back into or onto their vehicles, and slipped away whence they had come, to avoid being thanked.
When the Reeveses walked into their new home, Gregory, astounded by the steadiness of the walls, wondered how the house could be taken apart. To him and his sister, those modest rooms seemed like a palace; they had never had a solid roof over their heads, only the canvas of a tent—or the sky. Nora installed her kerosene stove, set the old typewriter in her room and, in the living room, in the place of honor, her hand-cranked phonograph for listening to opera and classical music; she was immediately ready to begin a new phase of her life.
Olga, with little or no explanation, decided to live on her own. At first she stayed on in the Moraleses’ patio, using the excuse that the Reeves house was too remote and her clients could not come that far; soon after, she rented a room above a garage on the other side of the barrio, where she hung out a sign advertising her services as fortune-teller, midwife, and healer. Word of her talents spread rapidly, and her reputation was assured when she rid the lady who owned the grocery store of her beard and mustache. In that society where not even men had much hair on their faces, the shopkeeper was the butt of savage jokes until Olga intervened, liberating the lady with a poultice of her own invention, the same she used to cure mange. When at last the bearded woman’s cheeks were exposed to the full light of day, sharp tongues said that at least the beard had made her interesting; without it she was just another woman with a face like a pirate. Rumors spread of how, just as Olga could heal with her salves and ointments, she could do harm with her witchcraft, and she was treated with respect. Judy and Gregory often visited her, and from time to time she showed up for Sunday lunch with the Reeveses, but the visits grew further and further apart and finally were completely suspended. Gradually even her name was no longer mentioned, because to do so filled the air with tension. Judy, distracted by her new life, did not miss her, but Gregory never lost touch.
Charles Reeves went back to earning a living by painting. Working from a photograph, he could produce a quite faithful image of a man; when it came to the ladies, the representation was enhanced: he erased signs of age, modulated Indian or African features, lightened skin and hair tones, and gowned his subjects with elegance. As soon as he had the strength, he also returned to his preaching and to writing books, which he himself printed. Despite the financial strain of keeping The Infinite Pla
n afloat, he staggered on tenaciously. His audiences were composed principally of laborers and their families, many of whom barely understood English, but he learned several key words in Spanish, and when his vocabulary failed he turned to the blackboard and sketched his ideas. At first only friends and relatives of the Moraleses attended, more interested in getting a close look at the boa than they were in the philosophical aspects of the lecture, but soon they learned that the Doctor in Divine Sciences was very eloquent and that fast as lightning he could draw wonderful cartoons—Imagine, you have to come see how he does it, quick as a wink, almost without looking!—and soon Morales did not have to exert pressure on anyone in order to fill the hall. When Reeves learned of the precarious conditions in which his neighbors lived, he spent weeks in the library studying the laws, and thus in addition to spiritual aid could offer his listeners counsel on how to navigate the unknown seas of the system. Through him, immigrants learned that even though they were illegal aliens they had certain civil rights: they could go to the hospital, bury their dead in the county cemetery—although they preferred to take them back to their home village—and claim countless other privileges they had previously been ignorant of. In that barrio, The Infinite Plan had to compete with the pageantry of the Catholic ceremony, the drums and tambourines of the Salvation Army, the novel polygamy of the Mormons, and the rites of seven Protestant churches, including the Baptists, who submersed their fully clothed converts in the river, the Adventists, who served lemon pie on Sundays, and the Pentecostals, who went about with hands uplifted in order to receive the Holy Spirit. Since Charles Reeves’s course accommodated all doctrines and it was not necessary for followers to renounce their own religion, Padre Larraguibel of the Church of Our Lady of Lourdes and the pastors of the other affiliations could not object—although for once they were in accord, and each from his own pulpit accused the preacher of being an unprincipled charlatan.