Despair

By Carolyn Roosth

Like so many young people, Nola Santiago longs for a life different from the one she has in the small Mexican village of Boquillas del Carmen. Her childhood is stolen by the loss of her father and the unsavory stranger who comes to take his place. Nola is soon forced by tragedy to hastily escape from her hometown and begin her journey to the new life she envisions in the United States. Along the way, Nola is tested by new dangers, loss, and death, which threaten to fill her with despair and hopelessness. She must try to offset her negative feelings with the comfort and new resolve she finds in friendships, love, and memories of happier times if she is to arrive at a place of safety and achieve the success she desires.

Nola's journey continues in DENIAL.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carolyn Roosth
• Release date: Jul 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311212634

Carolyn Roosth

I grew up on a farm outside a small East Texas town. I graduated from the University of Houston with a BA in English and Speech and completed my Masters of Education at the University of Texas in Tyler, Texas. My twenty-two years spent in teaching ranged from stints in elementary, middle school, and high school to graduate level at the University. An avid reader, I believe that reading is a wonderful educational doorway to the world. My husband and I are both retired and enjoy traveling, hiking, snorkeling, and watching movies. You can find my books in print at CreateSpace.com.

Book preview

Ten years ago, Theodore Rodriguez hired me for the job I’d dreamed of since I was a child. I became his secretary at Eastwood Middle School in Longmoore, Texas. Those of us who knew or worked for Theodore Rodriguez affectionately called him Teddy.

I was much more than just his secretary. I was the one who approved and set up his appointments and made sure he was prepared and not overbooked. I contacted parents when students were absent and approved their early dismissal requests. I was in charge of scheduling staff meetings and taking care of just about anything else that had to be done. I was the first to arrive on campus and the last to leave and lock up. I loved my job.

In return for my service, Teddy treated me like an equal, often asking my opinion on critical decisions. He sometimes brought me flowers or took me out to lunch. In all our interactions, he was polite and caring. Needless to say, his unexpected death had not been an entry in my day planner.

On the day of Teddy’s funeral, I squeezed my five-foot-two body into a black business suit that I’d not worn in quite some time. I draped a veil over my favorite pillbox hat to conceal my tear-reddened eyes and headed to Longmoore Funeral Home. As I entered the sanctuary, I signed my name, Nola Santiago, to the guest book, lit a remembrance candle at the makeshift shrine set up in the lobby, and took my place in the viewing line.

Four rectangular columns stood along each side wall of the brightly lit sanctuary like soldiers guarding the coffin displayed at the front. As I waited my turn, I gazed up at the cathedral ceiling. Its modern design bore little resemblance to the small, more traditional church in my childhood village of Boquillas del Carmen, Mexico.

Finally, it was my turn to look into the casket. Teddy’s tall, heavyset body filled the mahogany box to capacity. Every wavy black hair on his head was perfectly in place. His tawny complexion appeared healthy, as if he were only taking an afternoon nap. His custom-made black pinstriped suit, maroon shirt, and matching tie made him as stylish in death as he had been in life.

If the dead could see, Teddy would have been overwhelmed by the crowd of friends passing by to pay their final respects. Nearly everyone in Longmoore either knew Theodore Rodriguez or knew of him. Before becoming principal of Eastwood Middle School, he had coached the Longmoore High School Patriots to two Texas state football championships. That feat had, of course, made him a legend.

If the dead could smell, Teddy might have thought he was in a lovely botanical garden. His casket was flanked by a fragrant floral sea.

If the dead could hear, Teddy would have heard me quietly sobbing at his side. I was lost in despair, completely oblivious to the room’s modern design, the people around me, and the abundant flowers.

I’ve always tried to recall memories of the brighter moments in my life to help me to get past the darker times. However, not even the shiniest memory of my sixty-two years helped assuage my grief over the loss of Teddy.

###

Let me begin my story by telling you about my first shining moment. You know what I’m talking about. It’s a perfect, happy moment when you are totally in love with life. Your cheeks wonder whether your smile has somehow become stuck. Your eyes are alert and opened so wide that tears start to blur what you’re trying so hard to capture forever. There’s even a bubbly feeling deep in your stomach that makes you want to giggle and laugh out loud.

I believe everyone has at least one shining moment that they can call up in their mind when they need to feel a bit of hope or happiness. It might have been a real moment, or a dream, or even just imagined, but I believe everyone needs to recognize and hold on to that moment.

I felt my first shining moment on a bright June day when I was only ten years old. My brother Juan, who had just celebrated his eighth birthday, begged me until I finally gave in, to go with him onto the Rio Bravo on a small raft he and I had constructed from pieces of logs and wood we’d rescued from the river. String and baling wire barely kept the tiny raft together, and for paddling, we had only two pieces of a broken oar, which had been the reason we’d decided to build a raft in the first place. Though the mighty Rio Bravo was lazy and slow-moving in late August, it was still full of power and speed in early June.

We pushed and pulled the raft to the shade of a pinyon pine near the shore. Standing to straighten my back, I could see Aunt Rosa, Mama’s sister, at the bend in the river where the water slowed a bit to make a winding turn before it headed for the Boquillas Canyon narrows. She’d laid out her colorful green and red blanket on which she’d displayed the glittering bracelets, earrings, and necklaces she’d strung, hoping for some visiting gringos to stop and buy. She always wore her jet-black hair in braids, and her brightly-colored dresses competed with the clinking sounds and dancing colors of the jewelry she wore every day. Aunt Rosa had spent two summers picking cotton up in Texas and hated it so much she vowed she’d rather starve than go back there. The money she made from the sale of the jewelry meant she could afford a bit of meat once every other week to add to the vegetable stew she was known for in our shrinking town of Boquillas del Carmen.

In the summer, there might be gringos camped in Big Bend National Park on the U.S. side of the river. The Americans called the river the Rio Grande. Mexico still thought of her as the Rio Bravo. The river, whatever you called it, was both grand and fierce. Aunt Rosa said the gringos were always curious to dip their toes or fishing lines in the river which served as the physical border between Mexico and the United States. Some of them even swam, waded, or rowed across the river to visit the bars and restaurants in Boquillas del Carmen. One handsome young man had even stayed with Rosa for a year, allowing her to get a head start on learning English. Aunt Rosa made it her business to encourage the people of Boquillas del Carmen to learn as much English as possible. She cautioned that English would be a big help if you needed to go north to seek work, which was becoming more and more difficult to find in our small town. So many people in Boquillas del Carmen listened to Rosa that our school decided to ask the local Mission Church to purchase a supply of English language books for our teachers.

As I pulled on the front edge of the little raft as Juan pushed, I took a quick glance over my shoulder to see Aunt Rosa raise both hands into the air and wave to us. I couldn’t tell whether she was waving hello or urging us to stop. Anyway, I couldn’t very well stop pulling as long as Juan still pushed.

About that time my bare feet slipped into the cool water, and Juan gave a final push on his end of the raft, which sent me falling backwards into the river. My feet could no longer feel the bottom of the river, and I began to cough and gasp as the water filled my eyes and nose. Spitting water from my mouth and nose, I somehow managed to keep a left-handed grip on the end of a small oak limb that stuck out from the front of the raft like a huge nose. I watched in panic as Juan grabbed the edge of the raft and steadied it to allow me to creep hand-over-hand along the edge of the raft to the safety of the sandy shore.

We managed to pull the raft far enough up onto the sand so that we could turn loose of it and plopped ourselves down in relief. The ravens in the pinyon pines above screeched and scattered at the sound of our sudden laughter. We rolled on the ground and kicked our feet, sending sand flying along the shore. Every time I thought we could at last stop laughing, Juan would give me his cross-eyed funny look, which I guess was meant to imitate my panicked face while I was trying to hold onto the raft, and we’d start our howling laughter all over again. Our eyes were full of joyous tears of relief, our mouths were stretched into oversized grins, and we held our stomachs to try to calm the butterflies fluttering as if trying to escape. At last we rolled to face each other and stared into each other’s eyes.

"I love you, Nola." Juan gasped.

No, silly brother, I love you more! You saved my life.

I will always protect you, Juan said.

"And I’ll take care of you, mijo."

When we finally stood up, we noticed that the small raft had silently slipped back into the pull of the Rio Bravo and disappeared around the bend in the river. We raised our hands to greet Aunt Rosa and turned for home.

Last one home’s a rotten egg, Juan shouted as he dashed off and left me standing on the warm sand, still smiling, but thinking that I’d never feel so joyful and alive again as when I’d escaped from the river. I vowed to keep this shining moment always in my heart.

As Juan and I neared the end of a row of cookie-cutter houses, we began to smell the frijoles Mama prepared every day. Our front door had for some reason been painted a bright purple, perhaps to help you tell it from all the other houses. Over the years, water had stood and seeped into the ground at the rear of the house, causing it to tilt a little backwards. The front step consisted of one large cinder block onto which Papa had stacked a thinner, smaller one so that there was no gap between the steps and the front door. The top block wobbled just enough to warn that someone was at the door. If I set a marble on the floor of our living room at the front door, it would roll on its own straight across into the small kitchen and stop with a bump against the screen door that opened onto a small covered porch which had sunk to ground level.

Juan rushed to the water pail and pulled up the dipper brimming with water. Rafting sure makes you thirsty, he said. I made a funny cross-eyed face at him, and he got tickled and spit water onto the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mama coming to the back door with her basket loaded with towels from the clothesline. I quickly dropped down and swiped at the spilled water while Juan tried to put on a straight face.

OK, you two, what trouble have you been up to this afternoon? I coulda used some help around here. Just because school’s out, I don’t get a vacation from work like you two rascals.

Mama could have been Aunt Rosa’s twin, except that Mama’s jewelry consisted of only the earrings Papa had given her as a wedding gift. Her skirts were mostly brown or green and usually topped with a white blouse with billowy sleeves. She wore her hair pulled up to the top of her head with a rubber band. As the day went on, the curls on top of her head would droop down and fall around her face. Black eyes and a straight nose gave her a royal look, and her red cheeks were colored from working hard and not from rouge. Mama was named Teresa, and she had the gentle spirit and loving heart of another Teresa, known as Mother Teresa, whom I later read about in history books.

Juan recognized the smile she wore most of the time and knew she was not angry. In fact, she was just about the most agreeable and easygoing person you’d ever hope to know. I rushed to take the towels from her and said, I’ll fold these towels for you, Mama, while Juan tells you about our raft.

Uh-uh, I don’t think I have time for any stories now. I’ve got tortillas to mix and bake before your Papa gets home. Juan, you fold these towels. Nola, you go out and bring in those sheets. It’s ’bout to rain, so hurry.

Papa was late getting home, so Juan and I were washing the dishes when the wobbly cinder block announced his arrival. Papa was named Carlos, which means manly in Spanish. He was indeed a tall and muscular man, but his hair and eyes softened his appearance. Papa had a habit of running his fingers through his thick curls that tended to fall into his huge brown eyes when it was almost time for a haircut. That movement called attention to the fact that his usual broad smile at coming home had been replaced by a sour and ugly expression.

Mama was standing drinking a dipper of water when he came through the door. Seeing the look on his face, she refilled the dipper and approached Papa, who still stood silently inside the door. "What’s wrong, querido? I’ve made a plate for you. Come sit down and eat."

Papa accepted the dipper and took a small sip as he moved toward the table. Go to your room, he said to Juan and me, as he lowered himself slowly into his chair.

Juan and I lay for a long time, our sandy feet soiling the clean sheets, and whispered till our exhaustion overtook us, and we slept.

Early the next morning, we found Mama at the stove scrambling eggs. Where’s Papa? Juan asked.

He’s gone out early today, Mama explained. He will have to look now for another job. They are laying off the men at the stables and taking on young boys who are out of school for the summer to take their places. They won’t have to pay the boys as much as they pay the men.

Papa had not had good luck in keeping a job. He’d worked in the cotton fields for years before the fields were redistributed into smaller common tenancy farms called ejidos. Collective farming did not yield enough for each owner to survive. Papa was much happier being nearer home and working in the stables. Tending the horses and working with gringos who came to ride was not as backbreaking a job as cotton farming had been.

I looked at Juan’s puzzled face and said to him, It’s OK, Juan, Papa will soon find another job.

That’s right, Nola, Mama added. Your Papa is a good man and a hard worker. He’ll find something soon, don’t you worry.

Regardless of our confidence and wishful thinking, Papa did not find a job. Many weeks passed, and Mama was becoming more and more anxious. Our meals were cut to only two a day, and there was little joy and many whispered conversations between Mama and Papa.

Aunt Rosa began to stop by laden with soups and fruit pies. Mama carried on as if nothing was amiss, but I could tell she was worrying more and more every day because her usual smile was being replaced by wrinkles on her forehead and a solemn expression more suited to someone without hope.

Late one night in August, the weather was so hot you couldn’t sit for long inside the house, so we sat out under the pinyons. Dry thunderstorms produced no rain and did nothing to cool things off, and we became irritable and bored. For once, both Juan and I looked forward to school starting. We were, however, soon to have more to complain about than the weather and much, much more to wish for than the start of school.

Chapter 2

I sometimes felt as if everyone at school could look at me and know that my family was in trouble. Every gathering of a group of laughing classmates on the playground made me turn and walk the other way, thinking they could be making fun of me. Juan confided in me that he was always called last when the boys in his class were choosing up sides. Whether real or imagined, our feelings of being ostracized made us shy and defensive. It was not as if there weren’t times when one family or another had struggled with homelife or money in our little town. Since the idea of creating a U.S.-Mexican Peace Park had floundered, poverty, joblessness, and even drugs had become problems no one wanted to recognize, much less talk about. However, the job problem became impossible for our family to ignore when Alejandro, the owner of the stables, refused to hire Papa back at his old job. Papa said Alejandro sold some of his horses and did not need as much help anymore.

Juan and I did eventually cultivate special school friends. Juan’s best friend, Luis, was taller, bigger, and stronger than most of his classmates and stood at least a head taller than Juan. Luis seemed to have designated himself as Juan’s keeper, and they were always together.

Juan and Luis were a study in opposites, making them stand out as they went around the schoolyard and about town. Juan’s little pickle of a nose was set below eyes that were so wide open they never seemed to blink. Mama kept his hair cut almost to the scalp, which gave him a baby-faced look to go along with his ear-to-ear grin.

In contrast, everything about Luis seemed to come in size extra-large. The baseball he threw as the team’s pitcher was swallowed by his giant-sized hand. The power and speed behind his pitch struck fear in the hearts of every batter. Equally intimidating was when Luis went up to bat. He had his own bat he called his home-run bat, and it usually lived up to its name. Luis’ nose was like a small squashed potato, adding to his serious, almost angry-looking face, which sealed his reputation as someone you didn’t want to mess with.

Their relationship was a symbiotic one in that Juan enjoyed Luis’ protection from the class bullies, and Luis got help from Juan doing his homework and studying for tests.

Elena and I, on the other hand, became friends because we were so much alike. We both wore our thick, black hair parted in the middle with bangs touching our eyebrows. Elena was proud of a small brown birthmark shaped like a star that sat on her jaw. She said her mother explained that she’d been kissed by an angel.

I didn’t receive any angel kisses when I was born, but Mama claimed that I was born with the most beautiful, long eyelashes, which I’m proud to have kept to this day. However, Aunt Rosa tells me that I have a cupid’s-bow mouth, so I guess that’s as close to an angel as I can get.

When our noses weren’t stuck in a book, we’d memorize and recite poetry or make up plays, blackmailing our brothers into being our audience. They were pushovers for the vanilla taffy and pecan pralines Aunt Rosa had taught us to make, and they humored us by listening just to have the sweets at the end. Elena was still waiting for her own shining moment and envied me perhaps a bit for having found mine.

It was no secret that Elena and I both worshipped our teacher, Miss Mariana. Though our class consisted of twelve boys and only six girls, Miss Mariana never allowed the boys to tease us or misbehave. She kept them under her spell and controlled their natural unruliness with her ever-present smile and enough patience for three.

Juan’s teacher, Miss Josefina, had been teaching at our school for as long as anyone could remember. She wore sensible lace-up shoes and dresses that almost swept the floor. A tight bun covered by a net tamed her wiry grey hair. She carried a ruler in one hand as she paced the classroom, peering over each shoulder to check on work. A quick snap of the ruler against her other hand would awaken even the most devoted daydreamer. What Juan liked most about being in her classroom was the quiet time just after lunch break, during which they’d put their heads down on their desks and listen or catch up on lost sleep while she read stories of brave Mexican heroes like Lazaro Cardenas, Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, Porfirio Diaz, and even the bandit Pancho Villa.

Though the start of school had been a distraction from our worries about money and food, the job Papa searched for had not been found by November. His frustration darkened his mood, and he began to poison his mind with alcohol. There were many nights when he came home smelling of tequila or cerveza.

Mama ignored this new reality until she learned from a neighbor that many of the out-of-work fathers had begun spending their days drinking and playing cards. It was hard to imagine that the little bit of money Papa had earned by washing dishes two days a week could have been spent on booze and games instead of food for our family. When Mama discovered that the bit of money she’d earned by baking and taking in sewing had been taken from the stocking hidden in her dresser drawer, she wondered how much longer she could remain silent.

One Saturday night, Mama, Juan, and I were sitting at the kitchen table. Juan and I were doing our homework, and Mama was mending a tear in the bottom of one of her skirts. It was so quiet that you could hear the scratching of our pencils on the paper. The wobbly cinder block sounded two heavy clunking sounds, startling us out of our concentration. We three looked anxiously at the door, more in dread than anticipation of Papa’s homecoming. He staggered through the door, slammed it shut, and propped himself up with one hand on the door behind him.

Mama quickly rose and started to put away