Oscar Casares Read online

  They Say He Was Lost

  Domingo

  This morning after the storm, the edge of the alley was the only dry place a man could wait for a ride. Water filled the gutter and spilled over into large puddles. A toad had been squashed in the middle of the street; its guts trailed down toward the curb. Tree branches leaned against power lines. Domingo squatted on his haunches, far enough away from the smell of wet trash and a dead tacuache that lay stiff in the middle of the alley. He tilted back his straw cowboy hat. His machete hung off the side of his belt. He had been waiting over half an hour for la señora Ross. If she did not come soon, he would have to start working after the sun had already made the day hot. He was not afraid of hard work, but at seventy-three years of age he knew it was important to work slowly and be sure the job was done well. As he waited for la señora, he tried to distract himself with different thoughts of how his day would go, but his mind drifted back to the same thought he had woken up with that morning: today was the birthday of his Sara. She would have been twenty-one years old on this day, a woman with her own family by now. He knew his wife was back home doing something to remember their daughter, to remember the one year she was with them. Like so many times before, Domingo tried to imagine what Sara might look like as a grown woman, but he saw her only as a little girl and this brought back some old feelings he had worked hard to silence. He was thankful when he saw that la señora had finally arrived.

  Domingo opened the car door and la señora’s little dog barked and barked. The dog had long brown hair and little black eyes that seemed to pop out of its head.

  “Bueno días,” la señora said.

  “Buenos días, señora,” Domingo said.

  “Mucho trabajo at la casa,” she said.

  These were the same words they said every Saturday morning when she arrived for him. La señora spoke very little Spanish and Domingo even less English. They had learned to communicate with their own sign language, which was made up of the physical motions of what they were trying to say. There was a sign for Domingo to sweep the grass off the sidewalk and driveway. A sign told him exactly how to trim the bushes. Another sign let la señora know that the lawn mower needed more gasoline. The sign they used the most was the one to say that it was very hot. La señora would wipe her brow with the back of her hand. “Mucho calor,” Domingo would say. “Mucho, mucho calor,” la señora said. “Sí, hace mucho calor,” Domingo said. If there was something they couldn’t figure out a sign for, la señora would go next door and ask for help from the girl who cleaned her neighbor’s house.

  This Saturday, la señora stopped on the way to her house. She motioned for Domingo to wait in the car. She left the air conditioner on the HIGH setting and turned the radio dial to a Tejano station, smiling as she did this. He understood that she had adjusted the radio for him, but he had never cared for that type of music and the disturbing sound created with so many instruments. In any case, it was difficult to hear anything because the little dog would not stop barking. Where he came from, someone would have beaten the dog by now. Domingo tried to ignore the animal and enjoy the cold air. He put his face up to the vent and felt the air blow through his eyebrows.

  When they finally arrived at the house, la señora showed him the area of the backyard where several branches had broken off the ebony tree and fallen over the patio area. Two smaller branches were floating in the light blue water of the swimming pool. He used his machete to cut the pieces so he could stuff them into the plastic trash cans. Later, la señora asked him to use a long pole with a net at the end to scoop out the tiny leaves in the pool. Domingo liked working for her because he knew he was guaranteed work for the entire day. Her property was much larger than those in the neighborhood where he usually worked. She also owned a new lawn mower that was more powerful than any he had ever used. La señora was very particular about her yard and how she wanted it maintained. The grass along the sidewalk needed to be trimmed a certain way so that it met up with the pavement but did not hang over the edge. Domingo took pride in his work and wanted la señora to be pleased with the way her yard looked.

  At lunchtime, la señora’s daughter brought out two ham and cheese sandwiches for him to eat. The young lady had a pleasant smile, and it was hard for him not to wonder how beautiful his own daughter might have been, but he knew these feelings would not do him any good and he tried his best to distract himself with other thoughts. He was hungry by this hour of the day, so he ate everything she brought out to him. He sat in a lawn chair under the patio umbrella, imagining this was how people of money ate when they stayed in hotels. The sandwiches were filling, but at his age the spicy mustard upset his stomach. He would have mentioned this to la señora, except he didn’t have the words to say it, and even if he did, he didn’t want to seem unappreciative.

  He was finishing his lunch when la señora came out to show him what she wanted him to do next. She made a hacking sign to tell Domingo that he needed to cut some more broken branches left from last night’s storm. The tallest limbs were cracked and hanging on to the house. He nodded and made a motion as if he were climbing a tall ladder. La señora walked with him to the garage, where she kept the larger tools.

  Domingo gazed up at the sky as he climbed the aluminum ladder, stepping lightly on each rung. The white clouds floating over the Rio Grande Valley appeared close enough for a man to reach out and touch with his hand. Sweat was streaming down his face, and the band of his hat was drenched. His machete hung off the back of his belt. The ladder wobbled slightly as he hacked at broken branches, and he thought he might have been more secure on the rungs if he had climbed barefoot. He would have done this, but he was embarrassed to show his tired, cracked feet in front of la señora. They were the feet of an old man who had worked his whole life like a mule. Some of the jobs he took paid very little, but he felt fortunate to still be working. No one could say he had ever backed down from a day’s work.

  He had to climb onto the roof to reach some branches that were near the antenna. Domingo looked down and saw la señora watching him. The roof was over thirty feet high, and it occurred to him that this was the highest place he had ever worked. La señora owned a two-story house that was bigger than most of the houses on her street. From where he was perched, he could see the red arch on the Matamoros side of the bridge. If he stood on his toes, he could barely make out the tops of the billboards that invited tourists to drink more rum and eat dinner at restaurants across the river.

  Seeing this little bit of his country made him think of his home. It also made him think of Sara.

  La señora was yelling something up to him, but he couldn’t understand what she was trying to say.

  “¿Mande, señora?”

  She jerked her hands up as if she were being shocked, and Domingo understood he wasn’t supposed to touch the antenna. He waved back to let her know that he understood.

  One by one, he cut the branches loose and let them fall to the ground, making sure they landed a good distance from where la señora was standing. As he worked, his memory took him back home. He could see the baby walking the way she did, like a little drunk man. She crawled faster than this, but she was determined to walk on her own. Sara was always learning new things, which made Domingo and his wife believe God had blessed them with an intelligent child. He thought now that if he had stopped her from trying to walk and made her crawl, maybe she would not have been so curious to see what was down in the pit. His wife had asked him to build a fire so she could heat water to wash clothes. He turned around for a second. Even now he had trouble understanding why his wife had left him with the baby. They took her to a woman who knew how to heal, but she offered them only prayers. They borrowed money from their family to take her to a clinic, but there they told them her brain had been damaged by the fire in the pit and the best they could do was keep her comfortable. They asked God for a miracle. The women of the family prayed a Rosary over the little girl every day.

  Domingo and his wife mad
e a promesa that if their baby were to get better, they would walk the ten or twelve days it took them to get from where they lived outside of Ciudad Mante to Mexico City, in order to visit the Basilica, and, on their knees, give thanks to the Virgen de Guadalupe. And still the child suffered for a month until the night she died. After they buried her, Domingo told himself he would never enter another church unless he was carried through the doors in a wooden box. But he knew this was wrong, and for a long time he had wanted to make peace with these bitter feelings. As he looked toward the river, he thought that today, on Sara’s birthday, might be a good time to speak to God. He wished he could go back and be with his wife, cross the bridge and buy a ticket for the next bus headed south. But he had to remind himself that he had been home less than a month earlier and getting back across was becoming more difficult with the immigration authorities stationed along the river. He concentrated on the work he was doing, letting the machete fall harder on the broken branches, but the need to find peace in his heart would not leave him.

  The sun was lowering itself by the time Domingo returned to the little room where he slept. The room belonged to the Ramirez brothers and was attached to their tire shop. They allowed him to stay there for free, with the understanding that he would watch over the repair shop at night. Since the brothers also stored tires in the room, the space for his cot was limited. He was grateful to them for offering him a place to sleep, but he never stayed in bed too long, because of the loneliness it brought him and the fact that the smell of so much rubber gave him a headache. His clothes were stored in a cardboard box under the cot. The only other belongings he placed inside the box were a photo of his wife with the baby and a tattered envelope with the directions for where to send his money back home.

  After he washed his hands and face at the sink inside the garage, he put on a pair of jeans and a green shirt la señora had given him. The jeans fit a little big in the waist, but that was what belts were for. He used a rag to clean the dust off his black shoes until they looked presentable. Then he grabbed his hat and locked up the little room.

  Holy Family Church was a short walk from where Domingo lived. He had passed by the church many times but had never considered attending the Spanish mass they offered Saturday evenings. By this hour, the services had ended and he was hoping to have a moment alone before the altar. He had always considered the church small compared with most churches he knew in Mexico, but now as he walked toward the entrance, he felt as if he were approaching a very large mountain. The saints on the stained-glass windows looked like images he had seen once in a long, fitful dream. Domingo pulled on the large wooden doors, but they were locked. He peered through the window and saw a single light shining down on the altar. He walked around to the side of the building, but the doors were locked there as well. In all his years, he had never seen a church with its doors locked. Perhaps his imagination, or even God himself, was playing tricks on him for having stayed away so long. But the doors were just as locked the second time he tried.

  Domingo was heading back to his room when he saw a couple, an older man and woman, walking with a small gray and white dog. The man used a cane and looked at least ten years older than Domingo. The woman was younger than her husband and she held the dog’s leash. Domingo greeted the couple and asked them if they knew why the church doors were locked. The old man said he truthfully did not know the answer to this question, but perhaps it had something to do with the priest not wanting to work late. The man’s wife shook her head and said the real reason was that the church had been broken in to too many times, and once, it had even caught on fire accidentally. She doubted whether he would find any church in town open at this hour. Domingo thanked them and kept walking.

  When he arrived back at his room, he lay on the cot and rested. Sometimes he bought beer and drank outside the room on a wooden stool. But he tried not to do that anymore, because it was difficult for him to stop after two or three beers and then he would miss work because he overslept. All he wanted now was to fall asleep and forget his failed trip to the church. The room was dark except for a ray of light that leaked in through a corner of the ceiling. He wondered if there was some way of entering another church, at least to light a candle and say a short prayer. So much time had passed, and now waiting another night felt like an eternity, the same eternity he and his wife had endured while they waited for God to bless them with a child. For years, he had felt cursed because his woman had not become pregnant. She was younger and healthier than he was. There was no reason for them not to share in this blessing. And finally, when they had lost all hope of bringing a child into the world, Sara was born. How then could the child have been taken from them so quickly? Domingo blamed himself for not having kept her away from the pit. He carried the guilt on his back as if it were a load of firewood that was added to with each passing year. It was impossible for him to make sense of the tragedy. How could God have permitted it to happen? And then Domingo remembered something he had seen not so long ago. He was riding in la señora’s car when they drove by a house where people were standing on the street praying. Someone had discovered the image of the Virgin Mary in the trunk of an álamo tree. The shape of the Virgin Mother’s face and arms were formed into the bark. People were staring up at the image from both sides of the street, and the group closest to the tree was praying a Rosary. A slender woman with short hair was pushing a young boy in a wheelchair. The boy’s spine was arched as if he were trying to reach a knife stuck in his back. He wore a large bib and his head was swollen to the size of a pumpkin. Next to the tree, an older woman with a long braid knelt at an altar. A man leaned against a fence with his one leg, while his right pant leg, folded in half and sewn up underneath him, flapped in the wind like a small brown flag. Domingo remembered that la señora honked her car horn at a woman standing in the middle of the street with her head bowed and her arms reaching toward the Virgin Mary. He didn’t understand what la señora had said, but he knew it had something to do with all the people in the street.

  Domingo put on his clothes and locked the door to his room again. As much as he wanted to do something to remember Sara’s birthday, he could not escape the question of whether the image was truly the Virgin, though he reasoned that so many people could not be wrong. After all, they were people who possessed much more faith than he had in the past twenty years. What right did he have to question their beliefs?

  The road leading to the bridge was backed up with cars for several blocks. There seemed to be as many headlights as there were flashing lights announcing the rate of the peso at the various money-exchange houses. Domingo could see young people laughing and having a good time as they waited in traffic. There was one car full of young women and they all waved at Domingo as if they knew him. The light turned green and he crossed the busy street near the college and the McDonald’s restaurant. He loved the hamburgers they served and eating lunch there on Sunday, his day off, was one of the few pleasures he allowed himself. He had to admit that the Americans made very good hamburgers, which was another reason to admire how advanced this country was.

  He was a block away from the center of town when he saw the cathedral. Before he could check to see if the doors were open, he noticed that the steel gates were locked. The lights in the courtyard were on and he stopped to look up at the towers stretching into the night sky. He imagined that if a man could stand on top of one of these towers he might be able to reach heaven, maybe even see an angel.

  Half a block from the cathedral, someone whistled out to him. Two women were standing near the entrance of El Econó-mico Hotel. The taller one had broad shoulders and wore a sequined tube top with a tight miniskirt. Her companion had long blond hair that stood out against her dark skin.

  “Venga pa’ca, papacito.”

  “¿Por qué andas con tanta prisa?”

  Domingo might have stopped if he were a younger man and it were a different night, but only until he realized they were actually men dressed as women. The
shorter one called out to him to slow down, that they didn’t bite, not very hard anyway. Domingo looked at the different storefronts as he walked away. One store had piles and piles of used clothing covering the floor like giant anthills. At the next corner, he heard norteño music coming from down the street. Men and women were laughing and stumbling out of a cantina. He had never entered these places near the center of town, thinking that no one wanted to see an old man drinking and feeling sorry for himself.

  The bus station was a plain white building that would have gone unnoticed by most people if it were not for the buses heading to the North every hour. Taxis were lined up in front of the terminal, waiting for the passengers that had arrived. The station faced the levee and the International Bridge. Domingo recognized the sounds of the nightlife coming from across the river, but he continued to walk as though he had not heard anything.

  He turned the corner in front of the station and walked two blocks before he saw the tree. A man was kneeling at the altar. His wife stood trembling next to him, one hand on her husband’s shoulder and the other hand on an aluminum walker. As the husband prayed beneath the tree, Domingo could see the image of the Virgin Mary with her arms wide open.

  Now that he was finally looking at the tree up close, he didn’t know if he could pray beneath it, if he could see it as more than just a tree. He wanted to believe this was the work of God. It was God who had made the tree, so He must have also created the image of the Virgin Mary. Domingo remembered the famous story of Juan Diego and how the image of the Virgen de Guadalupe appeared before him in the hills of Tepeyac and how at first nobody believed him. Domingo wondered how one man could have so much faith in his beliefs. He felt a deep sorrow for having turned his back on God because of the misfortunes in his life.