The Guardians (23 page)

The problem is that shit happens on an ongoing basis. The wars ain't over. I hardly have a chance to keep up. The other day a lawyer was shot in J-Town on his way to court. No one saw anything, of course. He represented one of the bus drivers accused of some of the murders of women who worked in the maquilas. The word is the bus driver was a scapegoat. Apparently, the lawyer knew things that would have come out in court. Police officials, military, Interpol, state officials—who knows who's who, much less what anyone is up to. Oh, what a tangled frontera we live in.

When I was a teenager, we used to cross over to Juárez every weekend. J-Town always had a reputation as a good place to party. It still does. Hey, it's the birthplace of the famous margarita cocktail. Back then, Spanish rock was just starting up and they had some good live bands there on weekends. A carload of us would go drinking and carousing. The worst that would happen was the cops would stop us because we were kids and all hammered. They'd threaten to throw us in jail and then we'd pay a mordida and that was it. I had a girlfriend over there for a while. Carmelita. Maybe that wasn't her real name. Maybe she wasn't just my
girlfriend, either. But she was there whenever I wanted to spend time with her.

Years later, something happened that changed J-Town for me. You can't pay me to cross over now. And you best not suggest taking my Mustang allá.

It was
1997
and Crucita and I were already married. Our daughter had made her First Holy Communion that day. So Crucita and I and the kids, my mom, who was in town for the occasion, my grandfather, Xochi's new sponsors, well, let's just say everybody, decided to go over to J-Town to have dinner. We made reservations at a nice place near Avenida Juárez called Mares Mazatlán. It was supposed to have good seafood. Aside from my upset stomach that I was sure had to do with my pasta-and-scampi dish, we had a good time. The kids were well behaved, even Crucita's beer-guzzling cousin el Pinky.

Everyone was getting up from the table, full, contentos, and my little girl beaming in her white lace dress. Crucita's parents, our new com-padres, el Abuelo Milton, my mom, and I were all arguing as to who would get to pay the bill, when all of a sudden, like from a gust of wind, the doors were flung wide open. Man. I'll never forget it. Just like that, two gunmen were in the room, opening fire. Sparks from blaring rat-a-tat and people screaming and ducking with all the tiroteo. I got hold of myself and flung my body over Little Michael, who was closest to me. He was only about five then. Everyone was down on the floor, most people seeking cover under the tables and chairs. The gunmen took off as fast as they'd come in after they got the former police chief and his entire family. They had been seated just a few yards away from us in the middle of dinner. My kids had nightmares after that for a long time. Crucita had us all in family counseling. Truth be told, I think that was the turning point for any hope for happiness in our marriage.

That wasn't the first police chief to get hit, and most definitely he would not be the last. The dirty drug wars take no prisoners. A police chief could be targeted because he knew too much, because he had refused to cooperate with the local drug lords, or because he did and might talk, or maybe just as a warning to the next police chief.

That was the year the Juárez Cartel had left all the other cartels, all the way down to Colombia, in the dust. Amado Fuentes Carrillo, the head narcotraficante, was grossing something like—get this—
200 million bolas
a week. Who makes
200
million dollars a week, unless they've got an oil well in their backyard? And Fuentes Carrillo had even bigger
plans for himself. That kingpin was planning on expanding into the methamphetamine and money-laundering markets. Then, be it tough shit or what, Fuentes Carrillo died undergoing plastic surgery. He was trying to disguise his looks. Everybody on all sides suspected foul play It stood to reason. But it seemed that his ultimate demise was the result of complications under the knife.

“Poor México, so far from God, so close to the United States.” Most of the cocaine, marijuana, heroin, and the raw methamphetamine ingredients consumed in the United States enters by land from south of the border. México is next to the world's biggest drug market and the world's biggest weapon supplier. The worse the dirty wars south of the border get, the higher the demand for stronger artillery. The narcos can even buy weapons off the Internet.

This is all going into my book.

Now, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, or in this case, billion-dollar question, is: How long can the United States contain what its vices and counterproductive prohibitions have wrought?

REGINA

Mamá was right. I always was a little bit loca. Crazy, I'd say now, is not knowing a happy moment even if it bopped me on the head. What was wrong with feeling felíz, even if just now and then? I don't know. When you grow up being told smiling is too much, just like you are told not to cry, you don't know what to do. So you stay still, like a statue with a pigeon on its head. That is why I didn't know how to react on the most beautiful día de mi santo that I've ever had.

Maybe I was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed I know. But I'd never been overwhelmed with happiness before. Not even on my wedding day. But then that had only consisted of me and Junior going to the courthouse and then over to his mother's house to eat afterward. To celebrate she bought us Kentucky Fried Chicken. Mamá would have nothing to do with that day and stayed home. She was overwhelmed with my decision to marry Junior, who was going off to die in the war. She wasn't wishing it on him. She just figured what were the odds that one of our muchachos going to the front lines would come back?

Since we left my grandfather Metatron's property, I'd never paid attention to my birthdays. Only my saint's day was observed. By observed, I mean I had to go to Mass. That was about it. No parties, no cake, no piñatas, and most definitely no break from whatever else I was supposed to be doing that day. We didn't observe my first name, Regina, who is the Queen of Heaven. Just my second name, Ana. Saint Anne—patroness of late-in-life mothers. Santa Ana's Day is in the middle of summer, when there isn't a drop of rain in the sky and los zopilotes are making circles over your head.

But this día de mi Santo was delivered up on the wings of the gods. The gods in my case being three men now in my life, an old one, a very young one, and one in between. Like the Three Bears. They got together on this one and decided to take me to a charreada. Charreadas are Mexican-style rodeos. We used to have them on my grandfather's land. But those were nothing like the extravaganza that el Abuelo Milton, Miguel, and my sobrino took me to in Sunland Park. They were just the way the men entertained themselves on their day off—lassoing and roping horses and calves. The one I was taken to for my santo was a big espectáculo. It had mariachis and food and I even drank a beer.

“Don't ask any questions, please, Tía,” el Gabo said, as he drove me in the direction of Miguel's comunidad. It was Sunday. I figured he was taking me to brunch somewhere. I was a little upset with him because he had gotten off from work. He could use the day off—that wasn't it— but not to take me out or to spend money on his old tía. But they had it all planned, los Three Bears, the old one, the very young one, and the one who showed up that day in a charro outfit, the one who was just right.

“That's Miguel,” I said to my nephew and el abuelo, who had me sandwiched between them in the bleachers of the arena. Of course they already knew that. That was part of the big surprise. I kept looking. I had to rub my eyes to make sure. It was Miguel, all right. He was dressed to the gills—spurs, sombrero with a rope headband, pointed boots, a wide leather belt with a pistol, long-sleeved guayabera, silver buttons on the outside seams of his tight pants, and a sarape strapped to the saddle of his horse. The works. “Miguel has a horse?” I said. It wasn't his, el Abuelo Milton explained. It belonged to one of his neighbors, who was with the charreada and had invited him to participate. Miguel sure knew how to ride. “Wow,” I said.

“IT WAS ANOTHER OF THOSE SPORTS HE ACCOMPLISHED TO PLEASE HIS FATHER,
”el abuelo said. It was bright out. I knew he couldn't see Miguel or much of anything. You could still tell he was enjoying the rodeo, jumping up and clapping with everyone else.
“DON'T WORRY. HE AIN'T GONNA DO THE PASO DE LA MUERTE OR NOTHIN FANCY LIKE THAT.
”The Death Leap was the grand finale. It required the charro to leap onto and ride a wild mare on the run, el Abuelo Milton said. Miguel wasn't going to participate in the most popular event, neither. El coleadero is when a charro rides by a steer and gets hold of it by the tail. Then he wraps it
around his boot. Once his horse picks up speed, he can run the bull off balance. The charros who did do it were exciting to watch. Even the bull riding, although I can't say it was my favorite part. Miguel also didn't do no lassoing of any kind. But he did make a fine picture on a very fine horse when he came out in the first event in la cala de caballo.

This opening act shows the judges how well your horse is trained. Miguel entered the ring at full gallop. Suddenly, he brought his horse to a complete stop, leaving a mark in the sand from its two hind legs. Then he turned the horse in both directions and then backed out of the ring. For a moment I forgot myself and I whistled with fingers under my curled tongue as loud as I could.

“
AY!
” el abuelo said, covering his ears.

“I thought you were deaf,” I said to him, sitting back down.

As thrilling as it was seeing Miguel in the charreada, the men still had more surprises in store for me. It was the best day of my life. I swear. During the break, when the mariachis came out, Gabo disappeared. I looked around. I thought he was going to find Miguel. But shortly, there was an announcement over the scratchy, mega-loud speakers. I thought I heard,
“EL JOVEN GABRIEL …
”

“What?” I said.
“WHAT?
”I asked el abuelo, who had heard my whistle but now could not hear me shouting in his ear.

And then I saw my boy. I saw his crisp white church shirt and his pressed black pants, which I always creased just so, and there was my sobrino holding a microphone with los mariachis, dedicating a song to me. To me, his tía, and saying something about my santo. Gabo, in his young tenor's voice, sang a song I had heard only once in church, a long time ago. I think it was at a misa one summer in Chihuahua at the catedral. Gabo's voice changed last year. It's a man's now. “Salve, Regina,” he sang, “to you we send up our sighs …” slowly and so nervously, I held my breath throughout. I held my breath for him and for me. I think I couldn't breathe. I looked around, and everyone in the crowd was holding their breath, too. They had all shut up at once, beer bottles in hand, and even las criaturas were suddenly quiet. Gabo sang like I heard only one person sing before. That was my older brother, Gabriel, his namesake.

I knew my nephew had a voice. But I had heard him only in the shower. I always lean close to the door to hear better. He's been practicing to a Plácido Domingo cassette.

Now, in the center of the lienzo, my Gabo sang with his eyes closed,
his voice going out all over, bouncing off the nearby mountains and the faraway trees. And like I said, he had the crowd mesmerized. Nearly impossible for Mexicans at a rodeo. But he did it, mi'jo, with such resonance—a good word. A perfect word for a perfect voice. It wasn't just my opinion. Everyone was starstruck. Gabo is not a celebrity, but he looked like one con los mariachis. Only one violinist accompanied him, while the other musicians stood by with heads slightly bowed, like they were listening to a prayer. When my Gabo was done, there was still silence. Then all of a sudden an announcement full of static blared out the next competition.

When Gabo returned, his cheeks all lit up, I put my arms around his bony frame and squeezed him against my soft one that is giving in to gravity a little more each day.
“HíJOLE, CARNALITO,
”el abuelo said.
“YOU'RE GOOD!
”

I couldn't talk. When had they planned this, these men, the old one, the very young one, and the one I didn't know what to make of no more? One day he is a political activist Chicano, todo bravo and defiant. Next, he comes out like a nineteenth-century vaquero. The original southwestern cowboy.

And then, Miguel found us. I was in my inability-to-talk mode, which he was getting familiar with, so that's why I guess he spoke up first. “Nice, huh?” It wasn't nice. It was spectacular. Him, too. He smelled of cologne. Woodsy, pines, algo manly. Maybe it was the horse. Miguel sat down next to Gabo. I wanted to lean over and ask Miguel something. My mouth opened but nothing came out. I wanted to ask him why. But why what? And why should I ask why?

And then there came even one more surprise, from the three men— the ones who on that day I barely recognized. Who were like the little Russian dolls I got at la segunda, one inside the next. So many in one.

My next santo surprise was Uriel. Uriel, with her long, black hair and a little more of her than the last time I saw her, which was who knows when. She was making her way up the bleachers, waving, waving. Behind her was Uriel's newest husband, carrying a cake box. Like me, Uriel had always been good in the kitchen. “Regina!” she called. ”Hey, woman!” and waving silver rings on all her fingers, including her thumb, which the new husband made. I started waving, too.