Un Danzón, Vieja

by Emma Oliver

In the back seat I thought about how lucky I was to be going to Bakersfield where none of my friends from school would see me in dirty clothes. The car windows were damp. I cleared a porthole with my fist and looked outside.

Dad turned the radio knob, went fast through static whistles, people speaking in English, then an orchestra with clarinets and a drum, a flute and the scraping of one of those instruments that looks like an armadillo. Dad’s fingers stopped just as some voices sang “Porque si Juárez no hubiera muerto,”

Dad turned to mom, eyebrows together like an A, eyes wide opened.

“Juárez!” dad said.

Mom tightened the bandana, tucked in some loose curls.

“Its too early for that kind of music,” mom said.

“Ay vieja,” dad said. “It’s a danzón. Reminds me of all the dancing I did in Veracruz, right along the sea wall.”

Mom rested her head on the side window, covered her eyes.

“Turn it off,” mom said. “It gives me a headache.”

Dad looked halfway at the road, halfway to mom.

“Everything gives you a headache,” dad said.

Mom twisted her lips.

“That money you carry around,” mom said. “That’s what give me a headache.”

Mom’s head heavy on the side window, she closed her eyes.

“We’re going to lose it all. All our savings,” she said. “You’re going to drop it, or some vago is going to steal it.”

Dad drummed on the dashboard, followed the rhythm on the radio.

“You know how to dance this, vieja?” dad said. “You grab your partner tight around her waist, she puts her arm around your back, shoulders straight, right arm folded, hand to the height of your cheek, eyes looking at a distance like you’re punishing each other.”

Dad let go of the stick shift and folded his arm up.

“Real steady from the waist up and from the ankle down.” he said. “But everything in between,” he waved his hand, “ay vieja, that’s where the movement is.”

Mom slid closer to the door and put a hand on her forehead.

“Porquerías,” she said.

“No, vieja,” dad said. “it’s dancing.”

I laid down on the back seat, cradled myself. When I woke up, the car was parked under a walnut tree. Mom and dad were gone. I jumped and grabbed a handkerchief from my pocket, put it over my head and tied it under my chin. Dad’s flannel shirt down to my knees, sleeves rolled up five or six times at my wrist. I walked fast.

Then the rustle of leaves, hands in dirty cotton gloves, heads in straw hats, baseball caps. Men with handkerchiefs tied around their faces like bandits.

Dad waved his arm up in the air, his plaid shirt rolled up above his elbow.

“Crisantema!” he said. “Por acá”

Mom stood next to him, her face covered in bandanas. Only her eyes showed. Black with thick eyelashes, eyelids that sank deep into her face.

“Floja,” mom said. “You turn twelve, you get lazy. We can’t get you to move no matter what.”

My brown clogs muddy, no socks on my feet, dirt turned into tar around my ankles. I scratched the top of one shoe with the tip of the other.

“Why didn’t you wake me mom,” I said.

“You know your responsibilities,” she said.

Mom pushed a burlap sack at my chest.

“And tie a handkerchief around your face,” mom said. “don’t breath in any of that pesticide.”

Grape leaves heavy with white spray shaded Marcelino and his gold lame shirt, and Aurelio and Don Genaro, La Doña, me, mom , dad. We all picked fruit and the clip-clip together with the swish of the leaves sounded like a song. Then the noon whistle blew and dad’s gold tooth shined with his smile. Dad took off his brown baseball cap and wiped his forehead.

“Let’s eat!” dad said.

Under the walnut tree, I took off my gloves and threw them on the ground. They landed next to my feet looking like my hands were still in them. I sat with my back to the tree trunk and slid the box of food next to me. Inside the box were a jug of red Kool-Aid and two loaves of French bread, one with refried beans and one with chile colorado. I took a piece of chile colorado lonche and stuffed it in my mouth. No time to wash hands, hadn’t eaten anything all day.

Mom stood next to the hood of the Plymouth and drank Kool-Aid from a shiny blue tin cup. She stretched out her neck and looked out into the fields.

“Go see what’s keeping your dad,” she said.

Where I found dad was a few feet away way from where he said “let’s eat,” Dad’s head was down, chin at his chest. His arms were straight out, each hand held on to a branch.

“Come to eat, ” I said.

His face wrinkled, his head swung backwards, and the vines shook. White dust fell on Dad’s face and on mine. I covered my mouth with my hand but dust fell into my eyes and they burned, so I blinked hard until my eyes watered. No touching.

“Help me to the ground,” he said.

I wiped my hands on the side of my jeans, left streaks of dirt on the sides.

“Dad?” I said.

With one hand, dad grabbed my shoulders, his eyes opened to a sliver.

“Water,” he said.

How he said water was so tight that it made my own chest hurt.

“Get help,” he said.

I held him around the waist and he fell on me. My feet slid into the dirt, made a hole in the ground. Dad dropped to his knees.

“The money,” dad said. “Take it.” Then he fell to the ground.

My legs shook hard but I ran through the rows of grapevines, under the twisted green branches, looked at the sky for blue, but all I saw was green. Forgot the money inside dad’s shirt.

Aurelio’s black hair stuck out from the hole where his red baseball cap snapped together. He clipped grapes off the vine.

Wet strands of hair fell on my face and into my mouth. I spit them out.

“ My dad,” I said. “He’s under a tree.”

Aurelio raised the cap from his eyes.

“Qué le pasa?” he said. “Too much sun?”

Marcelino in a shirt with a gold lame eagle on the chest, cut the grapes at the stem with a knife.

“Or too much beer.” Marcelino said.

The headache struck me then, a nail right between my eyes that went all the way down to the back of my neck.

“No,” I said. “I think he’s sick.”

Aurelio and Marcelino pulled their bandit handkerchiefs off their faces, let them hang under their chins.

“What’s wrong,” Marcelino said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Where is he?” Aurelio said.

The green vines, long earth-color roots, no blue sky.

“I don’t remember.” I said.

Aurelio’s canteen was tied at his waist with a leather strap, the canvas soaked in water.

“Water,” I said. “He wants water.”

Marcelino took the sack filled with grapes off his shoulder.

“Let’s go see qué pasa,” Marcelino said.

The first blue I saw was El Gringo’s pick-up truck on the side of the dirt road. Marcelino put two fingers into his mouth and blew hard. A train whistle. El Gringo in a blueYankees cap looked up from the apple he was shining on his lap.

“Come here!,” Marcelino said.

Don Genaro and La Doña looked up from their box of food sitting on the ground. The sun bright on their faces shrunk their eyes to tiny holes.

“What’s happening?” Don Genaro said.

“It’s El Feo,” Aurelio said.

And Don Genaro wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, still chewing on his food came over. La Doña, close behind.

Dad was stretched out under the vines, his head on thick overgrown roots. His brown color somewhere back in Mexico. El Gringo got down on his knees and put a cup of water next to Dad’s lips. No swallow. Then he put two fingers at the side of Dad’s neck, pressed them below the jaw.

“No pulse,” El Gringo said.

El Gringo wiped his face, then over his blond eyelashes with a handkerchief.

“Heart attack,” El Gringo said.

Marcelino looked down at the ground, hands on his hips, spit sharp into the dirt.

“La Calaca,” Marcelino said. “Death made a visit.”

El Gringo took off his Yankees cap and put it on Dad’s face.

“It’s the heat,” El Gringo said, “too hot to work. Somebody better go get Rosa.”

La Doña wiped her upper lip with a tissue.

“I’ll go,” She said.

The workers stood around Dad, pretended to be sorry. But it was the way their bodies relaxed how I knew they were relieved it wasn’t them lying on the ground.

“We’ll put him in my truck,” El Gringo said. “Take him to the hospital.”

“We’re in no hurry,” Don Genaro said.

At the back of the pick up El Gringo pulled on the tailgate with both hands, shook it back and forth. The veins on his arms swelled up. He pulled on it again and the chains on the gate rattled. El Gringo’s face red, white teeth biting his lower lip, he pulled on the tailgate.

“Won’t open,” El Gringo said.

Marcelino wiped his forehead with his gold lame sleeve.

“So what are we going to do,” he said. “we can’t leave him here.”

El Gringo scratched his head, pushed his blond hair off his face.

“Okay then,” El Gringo said. “We’ll throw him in over the side.”

“Just dump him in?” Aurelio said.

“Yep,” El Gringo said.

“Fine with me, ” Marcelino said.

Marcelino took Dad’s arms and lifted them, dragged the body towards him. Dad’s head rested between the wings of Marcelino’s gold lame eagle. Aurelio bent down and grabbed Dad’s legs. He curled his arms under Dad’s knees, lifted him, and encircled the legs around his waist.

My bandana slid off and fell on my shoulders. I took it and dried the sweat off my neck.

“Is Dad going to be okay,” I said.

El Gringo took my elbow, look straight into my eyes, his face a puddle of wrinkles.

“Your dad is dead.” he said.

The sun hit the top of my head and the nail pierced through my eyes and down to my neck.

“I’m sorry,” El Gringo said.

Between Aurelio and Marcelino Dad’s body hung still, his eyes shut, his mouth bent over to the side. El Gringo watched with his arms crossed.

“Someone needs to get on the truck,” El Gringo said, “and pull him up from inside.”

“Or we could swing him and throw him in from the ground,” Marcelino said.

“No, pendejo,” Aurelio said. “We can’t just throw him in like a sack of potatoes.”

“Why not,” Marcelino said. “It’s not going to hurt him any.”

Marcelino stepped on the chrome bumper and threw one leg over the edge of the truck. Dad’s head slid on Marcelino's thigh and bumped on the gate.

“Ay,” Marcelino said. “Pobrecito Feo.”

“Careful,” El Gringo said.

Marcelino then put his hands inside Dad’s armpits and lifted. On the ground, Aurelio grabbed Dad tight around the ankles and gave a push.

Inside the truck, Marcelino tripped on El Gringo’s lunch pail and his foot twisted. Marcelino stumbled backwards, his ankle folded and he fell on his seat with his legs spread out. Dad hit the steel bed flat on his back. El Gringo’s lunch pail jumped up about a foot.

“Ay, nanita,” Marcelino said. “That was hard!”

Then the tailgate dropped open. Chains on the side rattled heavy.

“Ay cabrón,” Aurelio said.

“Well son of a gun, ” El Gringo said.

At the front of the truck, El Gringo put his hand over a hinge with no door, lowered his head and dropped himself on the driver’s seat, the wires squeaked.

La Doña came back without mom. She walked over to El Gringo,

“Where’s Rosa,” El Gringo said.

La Doña shook her head and dark curls fell on the golden hoops that dangled from her ear.

“Rosa won’t come,” La Doña said. “She says she can’t leave everything under the tree. She’ll wait there.”

Behind La Doña was the dirt road. Then Mom, a shadow under the shade of a walnut tree.

The motor came on and El Gringo pushed his feet on pedals and put his hands on the steering wheel.

“Vámonos muchachos.” He said.

At that I jumped on the bumper and over the closed gate, sat next to Dad with my feet under his legs, got close to his ear.

“Dad,” I whispered. “You can’t die. You have to get us back to Mexico.”

El Gringo’s cap on Dad’s face was still. Dad’s hands folded over his chest didn’t move to shoo off a fly that stood on his muddy fingers. I leaned against the wall of the truck.

And that’s when I saw the woman in purple. A woman in a velvet cloak came out from under the fender. Her face with no skin was covered in a purple velvet hood. There were rhinestones around her black sockets. She smiled from one ear to the other. Red lipstick was smeared over a mouth with no lips.

I screamed but it came out a squeak. Then she was gone. And I cried for me, for my dad, and for our house in Los Potreros.

The truck traveled smooth on the paved road. We passed rows and rows of grapevines, then apricot trees, then the smell of ripe fruit and sulfur from the kilns.

Then from the radio inside the cab, a flute, some clarinets, a piano, the armadillo getting scratched on the back. un danzón, vieja.

The truck creaked.

“Neréidas,” I heard.

I rested my head on the truck and the wind hit my eyes.

“Neréidas,” Dad said.

Dad moved his head towards his shoulder and El Gringo’s Yankees cap fell off. Then he opened his eyes.

“That’s the name of the song, ” Dad said. “Like the Nereids dancing the in sea.”

I took in air through my opened mouth but couldn’t get it past my throat. I tried again only to heave it back out. Then I stopped breathing just so I could start all over again.

“Dad, ” I said.

Dad’s face was pale, his lips dry with white film on the sides.

“What happened?” Dad said.

“El Gringo said you had a heart attack,” I said.

Dad took in a short breath, he moved his head to one side, then the other.

“The money!” he said.

My breath got short too. I felt at his chest with both my hands, patted under his arm.

“It’s here,” I said.

Dad squeezed the money pouch, then closed his eyes.

“The pouch is here,” he said.

On the radio inside the truck Pérez Prado played Mambo Número Cinco. Dad still flat on his back tapped his foot on the closed gate.

“Nice funeral music,” Dad said.

The truck made a turn and El Gringo’s lunch pail slid and stopped at my side. With my thumbs I snapped the lid open, took out the thermos bottle. I twisted off the cap then poured water into it.

Dad took my hands in his when he grabbed the cup. His hands were warm. His face was brown again.

“I will always take care of you,” he said.

I took his hand and put it against my cheek.

“Dad,” I said. “Don’t ever die again.”

The thermos dripped water and I wiped my hands on the side of my pants. I pushed myself up.

“I’m going to tell the guys,” I said.

Dad grabbed my ankle,

“No,” he said. “Don’t tell them.”

Then his big crooked smile that showed his gold tooth.

“Let’s see their face,” Dad said, “when I get up and walk.”

Copyright © 2001 Emma Oliver All Rights Reserved

© 2001 El Andar Magazine