A Rare Thing

By Rudy Apodaca

&nbsp&nbspA Rare Thing is a story of redemption and forgiveness. In the small New Mexico town of San Carlos in the 1950s and 60s, a motherless Chicano youngster Javier Jimenz, finds himself forced into an early manhood. The boy's father, Nicols, a Korean War veteran, drinks himself into the depths of alcoholism, struggling through life wallowing in self-pity. Javier tries his best to cope not only with his own loneliness but the day-to-day hardships of living with an alcoholic father.

&nbsp&nbspInto this setting enters Deborah Perkins. She moves into Javiers neighborhood. Javier and Deborah eventually fall in love, much to the chagrin of Deborahs mother, who doesnt share her husbands fascination for Southwestern culture and believes her daughter can do much better than what Javier has to offer.

&nbsp&nbspTragedy strikes, and Javier moves to California to live with an aunt and uncle. Deborah and he struggle to continue their relationship despite the distance and Deborahs mothers prejudices. Confused and unsure of his future, Javier leaves college to join the Army and ends up in Vietnam, where he sees his fellow soldiers dying every day.

&nbsp&nbspReminiscing about his father, he must face his own mortality, as he grapples with his own identity. Nicolss spirit appears at a critical moment with words to give Javier strength. Contemplating the real possibility of his death, he reconciles with himself, gaining strength from visions of his father as a good man who had his share of bad luck. Javier comes to grips with whether he has forgiven him for his frailties and failure as a parent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781468507225

Rudy Apodaca

Rudy Apodaca, a native of New Mexico, lives with his wife, Nancy, in Austin, Texas. He began his career as a trial attorney and practiced law in Las Cruces, New Mexico for 22 years before serving as an appellate judge on the New Mexico Court of Appeals for about 14 years, over two years of his tenure as Chief Judge. When he’s not writing, he divides his time between providing mediation/arbitration services, doing volunteer work when time permits, and especially spending time with his children and grandchildren. He’s the author of several essays. For additional information, visit his website at www.rudyapodaca.com.

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© 2012 by Rudy Apodaca. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First Edition

Published by AuthorHouse 12/19/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0722-5 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0723-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0724-9 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011962207

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

ALSO BY RUDY APODACA

The Waxen Image

Pursuit

To my children –

and their children

Chapter 1

1955—San Carlos, New Mexico

MAMá led me by the hand out of mass. It was a sun-filled Sunday morning and a beautiful spring day. The fragrance of flowers blooming in the church’s garden and the coolness of the air swept my face as we walked outside, the sweet smell competing with the fresh scent of Mamá’s soft skin.

She smiled when she spotted two friends along the side of the main exit to Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church. They stood talking near a stucco wall separating the south side of the church entrance from the lush courtyard filled with flowers alongside the church rectory and the priests’ living quarters.

Still holding on to me, with her loose hand Mamá waved at the two women and walked the short distance to greet them.

"Hola, comadres," she said. My dear friends. She let go of me to shake hands.

Next to the two shorter women, Mamá looked striking. Her high cheekbones and dark brown eyes that Daddy so admired glowed in the bright morning sun.

Buenos días, Piedad, the taller of the two said.

Piedad was Mamá’s middle name, which she went by instead of her given name, Maria. A common name in Mexico, where she was born, Piedad meant piety in Spanish.

Mamá turned to me and said in Spanish, Stay close by, Javier, while I chat a little.

I was christened Xavier Quijana Ximénez, Quijana being Mamá’s maiden name. Born and raised in Mexico, she liked the Mexican spelling of Ximénez, pronounced with a soft J. I had trouble writing the X, so my parents let me use the American spelling, Javier Jiménez.

And I don’t want you wandering off, she added.

I frowned to let her know I wasn’t looking forward to the boredom that was sure to come when the little chat turned into a big chat. Although only five, I had been in this fix before—ladies going on with their chatter of things I cared little about.

Standing only inches from Mamá, I fidgeted for awhile. They spoke fast, which wasn’t hard to do in Spanish. Although I understood the language as well as English, I wasn’t the least bit interested in what they were saying. So I began looking for things to do.

A narrow, brick path led through the gardens in the courtyard into the sacristy behind the church. Fancy wrought-iron spikes stood atop the four-foot wall, rising another four feet. They were bolted to the wall and welded together by metal bars running along the bottom and top near the spikes’ tips.

I loved climbing the wall and holding onto the spikes as I moved along the edge. I especially enjoyed the view of the green courtyard on the other side. It was filled with evergreens, blooming flowers, and gigantic cottonwood and mulberry trees spreading their shade on the greenery below.

In the past, I entered the courtyard by first climbing the wall and by following its curve until it ended at the yard’s gated entrance. The wall was high enough to get me into the yard even when the gate was locked.

Both climbing the wall and the courtyard were off limits to me. I knew that well, for Mamá had often warned me, explaining I’d get hurt if I fell—especially if I landed on my head.

Yet, the quietness of the greenery called out to me. In a matter of seconds, I found myself on top of the wall. Holding on tightly to the spikes so as not to lose my grip, I moved along as fast as I could.

Twice before, I had sneaked away from Mamá into the yard to hide behind the heavy undergrowth. It was my own little secret world. The fact that no one was allowed to play in the yard probably had something to do with my need to go there.

That one day, though, long before I rounded the corner out of sight, Mamá spotted me.

She was right behind me in a flash. I could actually feel her there even before I turned my head. I knew I was in real trouble the minute our eyes met. If looks could kill, I died a thousand times right then and there.

She lifted me by the shoulders and whipped me around to face her.

I’ve told you before, young man. She pointed her long finger just inches from my face and shook it. You’re never to climb this wall!

I couldn’t remember when I’d seen her so angry.

She continued her sharp words. Do you understand me, Javier?

I was so stunned by the sudden change in her that for a few seconds I couldn’t get the words out. She hadn’t ever lost her cool like that.

Do – you – un – der – stand? She shook me by the shoulders.

"Yes, Mamá," I finally managed to utter.

She let go of me. All right then.

Taking me by the hand, she turned back toward her friends and forced a smile. She rolled her eyes as if to say that as mothers themselves they’d understand her frustration. Giving them a quick wave and forcing another smile, she pulled me hard by the arm as she led me away for the walk home.

I began to cry.

You shouldn’t have done that. I spoke through my cries, wiping the tears away with my loose hand. You hurt my feelings.

You mean I embarrassed you in front of everyone, is that it?

I nodded, wiping my tears. Uh huh.

I don’t like scolding you in public either, Javier, but you gave me no choice. She stopped and turned me to face her. She squatted down. "It’s the only way you’ll learn to mind your padre and me. We do such things for your own good."

She looked away as if to give me time for her words to sink in. "You understand that, don’t you, mijo?"

I stopped crying and looked her in the eye. Then I shrugged, not wanting to admit that I really did understand.

She shook her head, upset at me for my stubbornness. Getting up, she tried to take my hand, but I kept pulling away.

I walked alongside her. I’m mad at you. As if she didn’t already know.

Be angry, then. She sighed. "As long as you learn to obey your padres, you can stay mad at me forever if that’s what you want."

For a few days afterward, still very much wanting to show Mamá that she embarrassed me, I moped when she was around. I spoke only when spoken to.

During those days, Daddy was away hunting with two friends. The day before he was to return, I made up my mind that when he showed up, it wasn’t going to change things for me. I’d keep on sulking until Mamá apologized for scolding me in public.

I could tell she understood what was going on for me but chose to ignore it.

Twice—when she got me up in the morning and at the dinner table—she gave me a tight squeeze and kissed me on the forehead without a word, but I didn’t hug her back.

Daddy got home late afternoon that day, a few hours before Mamá expected him. I was sitting in the front room playing when he walked in the front door. Mamá was fixing a pot of stew in the kitchen.

Surprised, I rushed to Daddy without thinking and gave him a big abrazo around his legs.

"Hola, Javier, he said with a big smile, squeezing me tight and lifting me up into his arms. Daddy missed you! Did you miss him?" He hugged me.

I nodded but said nothing. I didn’t even smile.

He gave me a puzzled look and put me down. I picked up my toys from the floor and went into my room not bothering to shut the door.

"Bienvenido, mi amor," I heard Mamá greet Daddy as she came out of the kitchen into the front room. We’ve missed you, Nicolás.

And I, you. He made the grunting sound he always made whenever he picked up Mamá off the floor and spun her around.

What’s with Javier? he said in a lower voice.

I heard their steps as Mamá led him into the kitchen. She began explaining what happened at church. No telling what about my sulking for I couldn’t hear what she was saying to him once they entered the kitchen.

The next day, Daddy too acted as if nothing was wrong. Once, I heard him whisper to Mamá in their bedroom that maybe they should have a talk with me.

I snuck up to their bedroom door so I could hear what they were saying.

"Para que razón, Nicolás? she said. For what reason?"

To set things straight with him.

"Déjalo. Let him be."

"Pero por qué? But why?"

Soon he’ll put the incident behind him as a lesson learned.

She was right. Her usual self, her loving, carrying nature, took hold of me once again, and I soon went back to showing my love for her with hugs and kisses.

I thought she was the most beautiful woman who ever lived. The rest of the week, I told her that whenever she’d come into my room and lay down on the bed with me or I went into hers. I might have been trying to make up for treating her so shabbily.

She laughed softly and wrapped her arms around me whenever I said that. I was happy once again in my little world, but not for long.

Chapter 2

ONE evening that summer, I was playing on the front room floor, my second favorite hangout in our modest, rented house. My bedroom was my first.

Our front room was simple, but it had Mamá’s touch. She may not have been a professional decorator, but her good taste was visible everywhere. It didn’t matter that our off-white walls weren’t only discolored but peeling. Mamá fixed that with well-placed framed prints that gave the place her special warmth.

Mamá and Daddy sat on the sofa, making plans for a trip we were taking to San Diego, California, to visit Daddy’s only living relative, my Tío Alejandro and his wife, my Tía Sofia. I barely remembered them but recalled that she was good to me the few times they visited us.

Daddy was enjoying a bottle of beer as he and Mamá talked of the upcoming trip near the end of summer, just before I started first grade.

Daddy gulped the last of his beer and was about to get up to fetch another one. Mamá stood up and put her hand on his shoulder, insisting she’d get it for him. She took the empty bottle from him and started for the kitchen when, without warning, she fell to the floor.

I caught a glimpse of her going down but didn’t see what made her fall.

Daddy rushed to where she fell and bent over her. He shook her.

"Piedad! Can you hear me?" He shook her again, harder.

What happened, Daddy? I ran to where Mamá lay. I was still trying to make sense of what I had just seen. Did she trip?

I don’t think so. She must have fainted.

I could see the panic in his eyes.

He spoke to Mamá again. "Piedad, mi amor! Abre tus ojos si puedes! Open your eyes if you can!"

She lay limp in Daddy’s arms, not moving an inch.

That’s when I began to panic myself. I started crying. "Mamá! Please do what Daddy says. Open your eyes!"

Daddy stood up, his eyes ablaze with fear. "You stay here with your Mamá, Javier! I’m going across the street to call an ambulance."

From then on, everything that happened during the next few days was a blur. I couldn’t remember the ambulance’s coming or Daddy’s leaving me at a neighbor’s while he went with the ambulance to the hospital. All I could remember was my crying myself to sleep in a strange bed that didn’t smell like mine and my waking up in the morning wanting Mamá to come home, and my longing for things to be as they were before.

On the morning of the third day after Mamá was taken away, Daddy came home from the hospital a broken man. Even though he tried to act tough in front of me, I could tell. He spent the whole day before and all night by her side while I stayed at our neighbor’s house.

According to Daddy, Mamá never opened her eyes or moved a muscle the whole time he was with her. She was in a coma, the doctors explained, after having suffered a burst blood vessel in her brain.

Although she wasn’t able to talk, Daddy would tell me when he’d come to check on me that he talked to her, telling her we loved her.

"Could Mamá hear you, Daddy?"

He looked at me with sad eyes. "I don’t honestly know, mijo. He spoke almost in a raspy whisper. I hope so."

Mamá died peacefully in her sleep late in the afternoon of the fourth day.

I learned later that it took two burly men to pull Daddy away from Mamá’s bedside hours after she passed away.

That evening, when Daddy dragged himself away to take me home, he tried to explain that Mamá was dead. She’d no longer be with us, he said.

You’re not going to see her again, Javier, he repeated when I kept asking when she’d be coming home.

Never? I spoke in a halting voice.

No, he whispered as he put his arm around my shoulders and held me close to him. His eyes appeared sunken and darker than usual from lack of sleep. "Nunca, mijo. Not ever, son."

I felt him quiver.

He wasn’t able to keep the tears back, and so I cried too. Something terrible had happened. Mamá would never be with us again.

Daddy didn’t cry in front of me when he told me those things, at least not a real, hard cry. His eyes would become misty, and that’s all. I didn’t think anything of it at first; I thought grownups weren’t supposed to cry. An idea of death wasn’t clearly fixed in my mind.

That night, as I lay awake long after Daddy put me to bed, I heard a muffled sound coming from his and Mamá’s bedroom. I got out of bed and crossed the room to listen through the thick wall separating my room from theirs, but I couldn’t make out the sound. I walked out of the room and tip-toed to the door leading to Daddy’s room. I still couldn’t tell what the sound was.

Finally, I called out softly, Daddy?

When I didn’t get an answer, I quietly opened the door and peeked in. The room was dark, but I could see Daddy’s outline on the bed. Alone now in his own room, he was weeping into the pillow, his body shaking with every sob. What he couldn’t do in front of me, he saved for when he was alone.

What I saw scared me because I’d never before seen Daddy cry like that. I thought of going to him and of getting up on the bed by his side. Yet a part of me told me he wanted to be alone and that he might get angry if he knew I was there.

I closed the door and returned to my bed.

I thought of Mamá. Aside from recalling the fresh smell of her soft skin and of her long, freshly washed hair, there was one picture of her I saw over and over again. It was of her leading me by the hand out of mass that Sunday morning and of my embarrassment that followed just months before.

Later, when I’d think back on that day, I thought maybe I recalled it because I felt guilty for having done something that displeased her. I’d have given anything for the chance to take it all back and to tell her I was sorry.

My Tío Alejandro and Tía Sofia came to Mamá’s funeral. They and Father Brannon, pastor at Our Lady of Guadalupe, who said the rosary and the mass at the funeral, helped Daddy and me get through those bleak days after we buried Mamá. My tío and tía spent the rest of the week with us. That was a good thing because Daddy spent most of his time shut away in the bedroom, hardly eating what my tía cooked for us.

Tía Sofia tried hard to talk me into playing with my toys so I wouldn’t have time to worry about Daddy or think of Mamá. She even bought me a new metal dump truck to get me started. I left it and my other toys untouched, even when Tío Alejandro took them out and sat down on the floor with me to play.

Instead, I’d join Daddy in his room. I’d get on the bed next to him, but he acted as if I weren’t there, even though his eyes were open and he could see me. Twice, when he was facing away and I got up on the bed behind him, he actually moved, placing his hand on my leg and patting it a couple of times to let me know he knew I was there but chose not to say anything.

Several times, Tía Sofia forced me out of Daddy’s room. She’d take me outside to walk around the block. Tío Alejandro would then enter the bedroom and talk to Daddy while my tía and I were on our walk. He’d still be in there when we returned, but all I could hear was his low voice as he spoke to Daddy. I couldn’t make out his words.

Before they left for San Diego, my tío and tía tried to talk Daddy into making the trip to visit them as we had planned.

We’ll see, was all Daddy would say whenever they’d mention it.

We ended up not going when the end of summer came.

But they wanted us to go, I said to Daddy. "Tía Sofia will be disappointed."

We saw them already.

But …

We’re not going, Javier! I’ve made up my mind, so don’t bring it up again.

As the days passed, Daddy’s words on the day Mamá died began to take on new meaning. I was beginning to understand what we were up against. She was taken away from me.

I missed her terribly especially when I started school in the fall.

Daddy wanted to take me to school on my first day, but he had to open the shoe store where he worked. He arranged for one of the neighbors, who also had a son starting school, to walk me to the school.

It didn’t help that on the very first day I overheard the vice-principal whisper to my teacher that I was an orphan.

I walked up to him. "I’m not an orphan! I said in my loudest voice, even though he was only inches away, not caring about my teacher and others around me. I have my daddy!"

He stood there shocked, said nothing else, and then walked away. Although proud that I spoke up to tell him I wasn’t an orphan, I suddenly felt very much alone. What just happened, I thought, set me apart from the other students. I carried that sinking feeling with me all the time, but I kept it to myself. I didn’t even mention it to Daddy.

I don’t know exactly when that awful feeling went away. All I knew was that it happened about the same time I got used to the idea of going to school and the new routines that came with it.

Within months, I found myself making new friends. It surprised me at first that I was able to stay busy with my school work and to enjoy being around the other students. It kept me from thinking of Mamá, and that, I thought, was a good thing because I felt sad when I’d think of her.

At the end of the school day, all of the other kids had moms who’d pick them up or be waiting for them at home. I may not have been an orphan, but I didn’t have a mom. Of that, I was sure. I’d have given anything to spend the day in class knowing that I’d have Mamá waiting for me at home.

Instead, I went home to an empty house to wait for Daddy to come home some three or four hours later. He couldn’t afford to pay someone to keep me, and so I did things around the house waiting for him, careful to obey his words of do’s and don’ts.

"That’s the way your Mamá would want it," he once added after his morning instructions, knowing well that saying her name had much meaning to me.

He stared at me with those dark brown, piercing eyes of his as he did often. Daddy was able to stare anyone in the eye as if he were looking right through him. At times, his stare scared me, more so if he was angry.

"No tengas cuidado, Daddy, I said, trying hard to show respect without sounding afraid. Don’t worry. I’ll be all right."

Never a school day went by those first five or six months after Mamá was gone that I didn’t think of her, especially when I first got home from school. From the minute I’d walk through the doorway, I’d imagine her coming out of the kitchen to greet me. When I’d sit down on the sofa, she’d sit beside me, stroking my hair as she asked me about my day at school.

I knew she had spoiled me, but she always did it without going against Daddy’s wishes or his own ways. She respected his right to take part in raising me, and she was always aware when he didn’t approve or agree with her way of punishing me when I broke some rule. Sure, there were times when I thought she was just plain mean, but I’d take whatever punishment she might dish out if she was around now so I could talk to her and touch her soft skin once again.

So, as time went by, I discovered that the world didn’t come to an end no matter how much I missed Mamá.

Daddy missed her too, for I could tell. Yet he’d never let himself get emotional about it. He’d keep those feelings to himself. He rarely spoke about her, so I kept my thoughts to myself too, thinking he wanted it that way.

No matter how much I wished things to be different, our lives were never going to be the same without her.

Chapter 3

A town of 25,000 deep in the San Joaquin Valley of south-central New Mexico, just fifty miles from the Texas border, San Carlos was the only place I’d ever known while growing up. My parents lived out their short lives in the town, and time would prove the valley to be the one place where I felt I belonged.

Yet, San Carlos was no paradise. Threatening sand storms blew constantly across the valley in the spring, and winters were bleak. I was ashamed of the many neighborhoods of broken-down, overcrowded adobe dwellings even though I lived in one of them and they were all I ever knew.

As an eight-year-old during the late fifties, I’d often join Daddy in hunting rabbits along the foothills of the San Jacinto Mountains. We hunted for sport rather than for food. Mostly cottontails inhabited the hills, but occasionally we’d run across a jackrabbit. On these journeys, Daddy carried a semi-automatic .22 caliber rifle. He enjoyed firearms whether for hunting or just plain shooting at a small firing range on the outskirts of town. Through the years, he collected what few guns he could afford.

Daddy owned no vehicle. Often he’d borrow a friend’s car, and we rode up the dusty, winding road into the foothills. When he couldn’t borrow a vehicle, we walked miles on miles, or so it seemed, until we reached the rocky hills. Along the way, if we happened to see an empty can or other rubble, we’d stop, and Daddy would hand me the rifle, letting me take a few practice shots. I found the rifle a bit heavy, but I did my best to handle it.

It was then that I enjoyed the hunting trips the most, but he wouldn’t let me get too close to the target.

That’s far enough, Javier, he said one time when I tried to get closer to a bottle I was shooting.

But I’ll miss, Daddy, I said.

Better that than your getting hurt should the round ricochet or the glass splinters towards you.

Ah, shucks.

"That’s the reason I bring you out here, mijo. To learn to respect the weapon and to use it safely."

I knew better than to argue. So I aimed and fired. As was often the case, I missed.

There were times when we’d spot a lizard skittering in the sand across our path. Daddy would stop and, without a sound, slowly hand me the rifle, pointing out the live target frozen in place. Most of the time, the lizard disappeared into a mesquite bush before I even lifted the heavy rifle to aim. I’d shoot anyway, not wanting to miss the chance to fire the gun.

If we planned to hike our way to the base of the mountains, Daddy packed our lunches, and we’d carry separate canteens filled with ice cold water. These were the times I found the hunting trips the most exciting, although walking the extra distance sometimes would hurt Daddy’s legs, weakened by his war injuries. He had been wounded in Korea when I was about a year old.

I made believe we were on an African safari and hunting big game.

Sometimes we stopped to rest alongside a small sand hill or ravine, and Daddy would lie down on some shady spot under a large mesquite or juniper, trusting me with the rifle before we moved on. I just sat there on the small hill, letting my imagination take over. I pretended we were traveling through wild, dangerous country for days and even weeks. Having made camp, I imagined I was given the job to guard against wild animals and unfriendly natives. I sat there real proud next to Daddy, listening for any sign of whatever creature might come our way.

Are there any mountain lions in the hills, Daddy? I once asked.

In the mountains, yes, son, he said in Spanish. But don’t you worry. They don’t come down to the foothills, unless they can’t find food near where they live. And that doesn’t happen often.

Most of the time, we spoke in English but at times in Spanish. Often, we’d mix them up. I’d say something in English, and he’d speak to me in Spanish. He did that, I guessed, because he wanted me to brush up on the language.

When we stopped to rest, I’d keep a lookout for lions just the same. That amused Daddy. It made the hunting trips even more exciting when I thought of coming face to face with a dangerous animal, no matter how slim the chance that might happen.

I’d be all ears. All I would hear was a lizard crawling jerkily through some bush nearby or some sparrows out in the distance beyond the rolling, sandy hills. Once, when I was very quiet, a scared jackrabbit leaped out of the brush below us, and I jumped, startled. That made Daddy laugh.

One time I spotted a crow, and I lay down quietly beside Daddy, who was fast asleep, to see if the bird would fly closer. It spotted us before reaching the slope where we rested and quickly flew out of sight over the hill. I lay there without as much as moving my little finger on top of the rifle, hoping the crow would return, but it never did.

At times, the stillness of the desert was broken by the sound of a large diesel’s moving along the highway just a few miles north of us. Its