The Day of the Innocents

By Luis David Villarreal

The Day of the Innocents is centered on a wager between three Mexican-American teenagers, their Mexican cousin, and a rich Mexican uncle in the 1970’s. The story recounts a real life youthful summertime adventure in the Mexican desert as the teens re-build a ranch house for a chance to own a section of the ranch. The teens are confronted with many physical, natural, emotional, cultural, and mystical challenges and are mentored by an old wood cutter who brings them a daily meal.

The book describes a boy to man rite of passage written in a distinctive Latino voice. I was inspired to write the book many years ago to relive the adventure, to communicate a message of the value of cultural identity in young Latinos, to give back to my community, and to have this story so my family could always remember this time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365474460

Book preview

The Day of the Innocents

The Day of the Innocents

Luis David Villarreal

Copyright © 2016 by Luis David Villarreal

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2016

ISBN   978-1-365-49203-7

Lulu Press, Inc.

3101 Hillsborough St, Raleigh, NC 27607

www.lulu.com

Las Primas

Laura and Melva,

Cerralvo, Mexico 1946.

Chapter 1

Summer of Sun and Daughters

It was in August of 1976 when the seed for my dreams was planted.  Until then, I slept, never knowing the secrets.   Now my memory takes me to the top of the stairway in my childhood home.  It was a spacious home though we were poor.  My father worked hard.  It was through his practice of la movida, of working all the angles, that we had a home so large. 

At the stairway I looked past the hallway to the bedroom.  I could see my cousin Ricardo leisurely folding clothes into a suitcase.  It was a Texas Gulf Coast afternoon, humid and hot.  The old wooden stairs creaked as I approached my cousin in haste.

"Ricardo, ya vamonos!  Everyone’s in the car, waiting for you.  Your father said he wouldn't wait any longer.  It's too hot for them to stay waiting! Come on primo, you have to go now!" — I was hurrying, yet my thoughts were slow.  I knew once he was on his way my summer would end.  Ricardo must have sensed the same; he moved without concern for anyone but himself and acted unaware he should be concerned.

"Primo, he answered back gluing his eyes to mine, time is on our side, so what if they wait..."

Ricardo's words rang in my ears with a sense of magic.  His stare calmed me.  I remember his words as clearly today as when he first spoke them.  His eyes appeared to glow and his lips parted to reveal a smile that told me he would always be with me.  By his tone, I knew something had changed since the beginning of the summer.  He appeared more at ease and spoke of time as if he knew its meaning.    He was living in the extended present and really couldn’t care less about the heat or the big hurry.  The events would unfold when he was ready for them and not the other way around.   At the age of twelve, he could not have known the power that was stirring inside him.  His intellectual self-had left him few ways to truly enjoy himself, but now he, too, was beginning to live with new meaning in his life.  His developing independence would prove a challenge for his parents.  I guessed they would not be pleased.   

Ricardo's mother had planned the summer for him.  Her plan was to send her only son, Ricardo, to visit his American cousins so he could practice speaking English, a much needed skill for young affluent Mexican nationals.  Somehow the plan didn't work the way my tía Laura had hoped.  Either Ricardo was too lazy to practice English, or we never really gave him a chance to do so.  Either way, it was a Godsend for me.  I was speaking in my native tongue and thinking in my native thoughts for the first time in six years.  I had also made a friend for life.

I waved good-bye to my cousin Ricardo, Bertha, his beautiful younger sister, and my tía Laura and tío Manuel.  I did not know when I would see any of them again. "Adios primo, I yelled out. Hasta pronto."

I hated the summer’s end, but there, in the heat of the afternoon, like an elusive dream, it vanished. 

It always seemed odd to me that Ricardo had come visit us.  We were cousins, or so we called each other, not first cousins, not even second.   His parents belonged to the affluent class of Mexico.  They could afford to send him anywhere in the world to study English.   It surprised us all he came to be a part of our lower middle-class Mexican-American family.   This was not the place to send such a beaming youthful jewel of Mexican culture such as Ricardo.  Looking back now, however, there was no better place for him to go.

Our mothers, though distant cousins, grew up as sisters and shared a life that bonded them for eternity.  Through the passing of time, universities, weddings, childbearing years, and careers they had gradually grown apart. But their spiritual bond remained.  The radiance of that bond would affect all our lives.  It was a thread spun of fibers that dated back for three generations. 

Time’s presence had been the strength of that bond, but now time had worn a groove — the fibers tattered and strained.  The lives of their children were at risk.  Their children were entering their teens.  Both women must have realized that as close as they once were, and as loving as they still were, their children were strangers to one another. 

I suppose it is always wonderful to be young and without care.  Having youth can mean that wealth and social status are irrelevant and that imagination and spirit are the greatest of life’s treasures.  I guess that is what united Ricardo and me.   I was speaking Spanish —  he was imagining the freedom of rebellion.  We had helped each other —  perhaps even saved each other, but were still too young to know what it would mean to either one of us.  We were young in our lives and in our souls.  We were young, but younger still was the adventure that awaited us.   Our time was coming.  Our time was calling. 

I relished the thought of speaking my native tongue again.  At that time I struggled with an American accent, but at least it meant that I would not be left behind.  My parents had immigrated to the United States from a neighboring land that at times appeared a world away.  Naturally the language of choice was the only one my parents spoke.   Having grown up speaking Spanish and entering school unable to speak English, it might seem impossible to lose the spoken tongue, Spanish.  I can tell you — it is not impossible.  Six years later its sounds were dead to my lips.  I understood the words.  I could not speak them.  It was my good fortune my ties with the distant neighboring land ran deep, and although I had lost a part of myself, it was simply a matter of time.  

The process by which I regained my native tongue began with the summer I spent with Ricardo, but, this was just an initiation of a much larger rediscovery.  

That summer was a beginning of what I would later know to be a war.  A war not for kingdoms or for glory, but a war nonetheless.  My war was a war for truth, a war for an escape from the barrio of poverty, a war for identity and a war for my soul —  a war that was bitter and brutal, but that left me richer and stronger.

A thought from that war draws near to me.  A poem I wrote in my youth sings to me.  As a man, I know the poem well.  As young Julio, the versus I wrote gave meaning to a life I was beginning to know.   The secrets of childhood dreams.   My God they are my dreams —  I cannot deny them.   The poem revealed, it whispers gently to me:

········

The haze covers me

with pictures I do not understand

Through the mist

I know only images

Secret Images within my soul

Secrets of México, Living, & Death

I fight unwilling

then with all my might.

A calm overtakes me

The war subsides

Time strokes

52 years’ pass

Quetzalcóatl calls

Where is Aztlan?

The truth is now

as the truth was then

The war is back

gone — then back again.

········

Every family has rituals that define them and their children.  My family had one very special ritual we performed at least five, six times a year.  We ventured to Mexico to bathe ourselves in our culture of choice.  We would lather up by smelling and tasting the delicious treats from the Mexican street vendors as we passed through the international border at Roma, Texas.   We would scrub ourselves down with a harsh ride down the Mexican highway system and its ever present Federales and Aduanales (Customs officials).   We would play with delight in its spirited waters by attending a bullfight or by living amongst its masses.  And we would rinse ourselves off with the laughter, kisses, and embraces of our family celebrations.   We would travel to Mexico and renew ourselves and our souls from all of our North Americano sins. 

My parents were alone among their families in choosing the life of immigrants, so that going to the distant neighboring land meant many things to me. Mostly, it meant sleeping at Grandmother's house, getting together for Christmas, playing soccer in the streets with cousins, and seeing my uncles celebrate New Year's Eve.  Mexico was many other things, but at that time it was family doing family things.

We arrive in Monterrey accompanied by the chill of a northern wind.  Once settled in, I acted quickly by asking mother if we could visit my tía Laura and primo Ricardo.

I don't know, my memory watches her braiding my sisters long brown hair.  You know your father wants to see his sisters, and I promised Grandmother I would be here to help her with the tamales.

This didn't strike me as good news —  my father could spend days with his sisters, Grandmother would have everyone over to prepare the tamales.   I love my Grandmother's tamales, but they were an event, like cooking Thanksgiving day turkey for a week.  No one was safe from either rolling out the masa, stuffing the masa, or wrapping the tamale in corn husks.  Anything less than 500 tamales would be a wasted effort.

I was resigned to waiting.  I used this time to watch the ritual being celebrated. I watched as a hugging and kissing frenzy would start with each family we'd meet.  This would go on until everyone felt loved.  I enjoyed this, it was sincere, festive, and never the same.  

The first few days we had our reunions and made tamales.  During this time my brothers and I steadily reminded our parents that we wanted to visit our tía Laura.    On the fourth day of our trip, they accepted destiny’s conclusion and said Let's go. 

Christmas had been yesterday, hearing mother say let's go was far better.  It brought a swell of joy that was unmatched by any recent memory.  I was in the car, seated, waiting to go in less than ten seconds.  Why couldn’t they move more quickly?

At the driveway of Ricardo’s house was a fifty foot double iron gate.  Paved in rock, it descended toward a parking garage.  I was bewildered with what I can only describe as true beauty.  His home was enormous —  a two story white stucco house with no windows, not even a door facing the front.  It was a hybrid between a traditional Spanish ranch hacienda, a jail, and a convent.  I felt that I was going to enter a place that I would not understand.

My father street parked to let us out, then headed to see his sisters.  Walking up to the house I was baffled by the entrance.   The entrance way to the home was a deceptively modest arch.  Past the arch stood a doorway of glorious artisan workmanship.  An entire wall of brilliantly sculptured folk art depicting the struggle of a Mesoamerican tribe to keep their land.   It seemed like blasphemy to beat on the artisan’s work to call someone to the door.  Perhaps, even then, I knew my American thoughts were different.  The artisan made this door to introduce the visitor to the home and eventually to allow the visitor in.  Having to beat on the door was simply putting it to full use.  Why should the artisan care that the door may not show the genius of his work with the passage of time?  As an American, I saw little reason not to beat strongly on it so our presence would be known.  My Mexican mind was telling me something different.   The Artisan, I thought, would get more work from having to repair the door.  The constant beating of his forefathers’ figures would probably seem natural to him.  

As my mind was in debate, a warm smile from an elderly Indian house worker opened the door "Buenas tardes, I am at your service,"

"Buenas tardes, we are the Villanueva family.  Is the lady of the house home?"  My mother replied.

"Yes, come in — Señora Ramos, the Villanueva family is here to visit."

As we entered the house, I was overtaken with amazement, breathless from the shimmering of gold and silver ornaments.  From the corner of my eyes everything was a sparkle.  I leaned to Pablo and whispered with a gasp of awe struck inspiration, "This place is like the feria de San Marcos."

Of course, the house wasn't anything like the Mexican festival at San Marcos, but that was the only place I had ever been that was anywhere near as wonderful.  The foyer was draped with magnificent antiques from Spanish haciendas, colonial churches, and Mesoamerican artifacts.  Stairs came almost directly to the doorway, leading up to a second floor of equally impressive antiques.  Everywhere I turned, I was met with a view more spectacular than the one before.  How could people live like this?   I wondered.

"Melva, Gracias a Dios, you have come to stay with us."   With this my tía Laura gave thanks to God and the brown Virgin followed by a giant smile, kiss, and abrazo that lasted a full minute.  It warmed my heart to see my mother and her soul mate reunited.  Their love for each other gave strength and pleasure to everyone.  Our cousins showed up shortly after.  It was our turn to greet them all.  The kissing and hugging frenzy began anew.   As I finished greeting Ricardo's three sisters, I looked over and saw Ricardo's familiar smile.

Primo, what took you so long?  Ricardo stood by the kitchen doorway with a chicken torta in his hand. Your letter said to be here four days ago.

Primo, I answered with a leap of joy, your letter said your English had gotten better!  We laughed, embraced with the traditional Mexican abrazo (embrace).

I have known many who think the simple act of a hug can be called an abrazo.    Even the adolescent Julio knew this was not the case.  I felt then the abrazo was much more.  It is love, education, respect, tradition, and above all, culture.  If there was a hint of insincerity, I thought surely it will show in the abrazo.  When I thought of how to perform the abrazo, I always thought of my tío Samuel.   He walked, talked, and smelled of Mexico.  He was Mexicano, como el chile verde (Mexican, like the green chili).    His approach to the abrazo started with eye contact and a simultaneous smile.  His smile was genuine, enormous, and inviting.  Next came his outstretched hand for a firm handshake. I watched as his handshake was first an open hand, business-style, handshake followed by a grip of brotherly respect and empathy.   His handshake rose to chest level —  bringing him and his accomplice closer together.  In graceful fashion, I watched them embrace — left arm waist level, right arm shoulder blade level — and pat each other three times on the upper back.  He held the third pat to reinforce his respect and love.  At its conclusion, he would separate himself from the abrazo and again offer his outstretched hand for another hand shake.

It was my turn —  I was greeting Ricardo, enjoying the warmth of his male embrace.  I was practicing the abrazo, knowing this was, both for us and for our families —  a way of perfecting the art of our culture.

We came to Ricardo's house hoping to visit for two hours while my father was with his sisters.  I think now these two hours may have changed my life forever.   My brothers and I had found something intangible.  We couldn't explain or put reason to it.  Ricardo, his family, and the magnificent house had enchanted us.

CERALVO, MEXICO, 1946 - THE YELL OF MELVA!!!, ECHOES through the spaces of the mountainous ranch.  Laura is running barefoot across a dusty dirt road.  Her youthful steps bounce with energy as she calls out to her dearest cousin, Melva.  Melva hides behind a large Mesquite tree.  Hide and go seek takes a whole new dimension when the playing field is a 300 acre ranch..  The girls play the game most of the morning, until they can’t resist the urge to talk the girl talk.

Laura and Melva walk toward the ranch home holding hands.   They sit and clear off a four foot by four-foot area of cement.   They brush aside hay, dirt, chicken droppings, and a few coke bottles. It is the middle of the afternoon.  Melva’s grandmother is singing a tune in the kitchen as she cooks an afternoon meal.  Laura and Melva sit down opposite each other.  Melva pulls out the rubber ball, Laura the metal spikes.  They begin to play Jacks.

What are we going to play for?  Laura asks before she’ll hand the ball over.

What did we play for yesterday? responds Melva.

Enrique’s un-ending love.  They both smile.  And I won.  Laura smiles wider.

Then you’re going to hate it when I win it back.  Melva reaches her hand out to take the ball from Laura.

You can’t do that!  Laura protests.  You can’t just win someone’s un-ending love one day then lose it the next.  You can’t do that!

So, if you really won his un-ending love.  If it’s a sign from the brown Virgin, or God himself, then you’ll win again, right.  The little virgin wouldn’t play games like that with you.  What are you worried about?

About you tricking me.   Let’s play for something else.

Nope — un-ending love, or nothing.  That’s how I see it.

So how many times do I have to win his love before I know it’s for real.

Five times in a row.  You beat me five times in a row and that’s got to be a sign from our lady.

Yeah, that would be a sign.  First one to five wins, gets his un-ending love.  Laura reaches out her pinky finger to shake Melva’s pinky.  They shake on it.  That’s to be a sign.

An older woman from town approaches the ranch house.  She walks slowly, but deliberately with a basket in her arm, a colorful vale on her head.   The girls continue playing Jacks until the woman has made her way almost to the doorstop. 

Good afternoon, girls.  Is Chonita in?  The old woman asks.

Good afternoon, Señora Vargas.  Yes, she is in.  Let me call her for you,  Melva rises from her cement seat and runs in the house.  Mama Chonita — Señora Vargas is here to see you.

Thank you child.  Chonita wipes her hands on her apron and walks toward the door.  Señora Vargas, how nice to see you here, she reaches out to kiss her.  I am at your service.  What brings you here?  Please tell me what I can do for you.

Doña Chonita, I am in need of help that only you can give.  My son, Juan, is returning home after months of working far away.  I want to give him a welcome he will never forget.

How can I help you Señora Vargas?  Please tell me what I can do.

I want to give my son many things, presents, a feast when he returns.  The mountains can be so cold in this season.  I wanted to make him a sweater and I am told you have the croche needles that make the finest sweaters in all the village.  I was hoping to borrow them from you, if that is not too much to ask?

Of course not, I wouldn’t mind.  But let me please make the sweater for him.  You will have so many other things to do.  I will give it to you and you can offer it to him as your own.  No one will ever know.  It will be secret between you and me.

No — I cannot ask that.  That is impossible.  Please, just allow me the privilege to borrow them and I will do the work.

But you see, that is just it.  It is not any amount of work for me.  It is my pleasure.  Allow me to do this for you.

You offer too much.  Please just the needles.  I will do the work.

I will not hear of it.   Your son, Juan, is a large man.  I will measure it properly – you’ll see.  It will be done in four weeks.

Doña Chonita, you are too kind.  May God bless you.

Please come in, Señora Vargas, let me serve you some coffee with milk.

Thank you, I have much to do.  Another time, another time.

Mama Chonita, Melva speaks looking up from her game of Jacks as she watches Señora Vargas walk back down the path away from the house., why do you such a thing?  You know she came here with every intention of having you make that sweater for her.   She is going to take that sweater, tell everyone she made it and brag that she can make just as good of a sweater as you can.  You know how she is.

"Melva, don’t speak like that.  You have no right. Señora Vargas is a mother looking forward to the return of her son.  She has a right to be excited.  Besides, Melva, what is mine is mine.