Unveiled Echoes

By Norman Keifetz

He saw Ta Paradas adobe in the distance, a small house, white-washed. He knew all adobes were deceptive: bigger inside than one would imagine seeing the exterior, even standing right in front. But first he went to see something else, something hed neglected the last time.
He saw immediately it was a cemetery with all the ornamental charm even whimsy you might find in the heart of Mexico and, typical of such spots, he had trouble finding his graves. There was, of course, no symmetry to the stone markers. Some lay south and some lay east and some just athwart each other. The rows between the headstones were spastic zigzags, hardly parallel lines. Matt smiled inside, thinking with what mockery this burial ground might be greeted by the groundkeepers at the National Cemetery at Arlington, Virginia. Walking around for a while, along the angled pathways, he came upon them. The graves. There was a headstone for Ajax. A Cross and a Star of David had been cut into his stone. Maybe, for her husbands grave, Ta Parada had been memorializing the little church in Remedios that always fascinated tourists with its famous star underlaying a cross on its front wall. On a grave beside it there was only a carved angel. It read : Tres Concupisente Franklin. My God! She had named him Tres! Tres from her old stories of our family and our long ago relative. Matt couldnt hold back the tears. The lump in throat grew, and finally he put his head in his hands and sobbed. When he recovered and looked at the stone again he was puzzled to see fresh flowers on both graves; and pebbles atop both headstones. When he got the chance, if it seemed okay, he would have to ask Ta Parada about the flowers and pebbles. Or was Mr. Piedo simply doing his job as Ta Paradas representative, in life and in death? Did he come with the flowers every Monday, like today? Perhaps the flowers were from yesterday. The little pebbles could have been there for months. Matt wondered if this was the Redheads' way, decorating graves with flowers and pebbles? Like the quick burials and death shrouds in place of coffins? These werent old Mexican customs, but certainly the headstones in this cemetery were dominated by crosses and lovely stone statues of the Holy Mother. He suddenly recalled that in Montevideo he had seen pebbles on top of a gravestone. But he didnt know what it signified. He was starting to leave when he noticed that on the side of Ajax's stone there was lightly etched a seven-piece ceremonial candlestick holder. He looked on the side of Tres Concupisente's stone marker. Inscribed there were the wordssweet natured in Spanish. He went around the cemetery, studied the symbols on the other graves-- besides the crosses and holy images an occasional engraving of the opened Tablets of the Ten Commandments appeared. Dear Jesus and Mary! What are these symbols saying? Were these so-called Redheads descendants of conversos? Impossible! But maybe not. Hadnt his friend, Steve Steamer once said that conversos might have been in the expedition that settled Reino de Dios as well as Remedios!
Matt moved toward the little house, trying to puzzle it out. He could picture the church in Remedios with its star and cross. Was it only old Mr. Steamers Steves great, great, great Grandfather -- doing or was there something encryptic there, something secretly acknowledged? Or was the knowledge all unconscious, an incomprehensible ancestral wailing of some centuries-old truth?
He knocked on the door, lightly because of Ta Paradas famous hearing. The family had always marvelled at how acutely she could hear They said she heard better than a dog, perhaps as good as any creature that roams in the night. No answer. Again, louder. Still silence. The door opened when he turned the knob. The house felt warm as though it were presently being lived in. He suspected she was home, but had decided not to answer. She had never had a phone in this house, much to the fami

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493145706

Norman Keifetz

Norman Keifetz has published nine earlier novels, had plays produced, entertained readers of Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock mystery magazines as well as literary quarterlies. He is a surprising writer, a treat for readers who know his work and for those who come upon his writing for the first time. His work has been honored at book festivals in London, New York, Amsterdam and Los Angeles. The author is married to the award winning Mexican poet, Issamary Simmons Benavides. They live in New York and San Miguel Allende, Mexico.

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Copyright © 2013 by Norman Keifetz.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2013921418

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4931-4569-0

                Softcover       978-1-4931-4568-3

                eBook              978-1-4931-4570-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 12/09/2013

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Contents

Dedication and Acknowledgements

 1

 2

 3

 4

 5

 6

 7

 8

 9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

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22

23

24

25

26

27

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29

Dedication and Acknowledgements

For Mandy and Brom. And yes, of course, Joyce.

And for some new folks on the scene

—Issamary Simmons and Sophie Athena Grella.

There is at least one other who must be remembered

here—Rosalie Rader of Mesilla, New Mexico, now no

more, alas, but very much a part of the genesis of

Unveiled Echoes. Rosalie was my introduction to the

Southwest. The story came later.

Previously Published

Novels: The Smoking Contest, Xlibris, 2013

• (novel honored at The Great Midwestern Book Festival, 2013, Chicago)

Sweet, Sour and Sad, (collected works) Xlibris, 2012

A Jack is a King, The Dial Press, 1962

The Sensation, Atheneum, 1974

The Sensation, Paper Editon, New American Library (Signet), 1975

Welcome Sundays, G.P. Putnam’s 1979

Books:

Cooking for Your Celiac Child, The Dial Press, 1968

Plays:

Wolf Boy, Produced at The Hyde Museum, Glens Falls, N.Y, 1986

What We Dropped, 2012

Oven Men, 2012

Short Fiction:

The Boil, Quixote (literary magazine), 1956

Hey, We Lost Our Dogs, Chicago Review, 1960

Dropped Seeds, Storyteller Magazine, 1994

Twin Killing, Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Aug/2004

Dragon’s Breath, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Aug/2007

Creative non-fiction:

The Review of Contemporary Fiction, 1987

The New York Times Magazine, 1969

New York Newsday, 1986

 1

During the fall in the mountain village

of Reino de Dios some would take to the fields

from dawn to sunset. They would appear to be

collecting the fruits of the planting,

but they’d actually be singing mournful songs.

Matt couldn’t believe that in the little village outside of Maquinchao, in central Argentina, they’d found him. They’d mailed the magazine to him from Remedios, New Mexico, to who knows where and three weeks later, a man riding on a donkey hands an envelope to him. There’s no escaping. He could see that.

He opened the magazine and read it quickly, scanning the photos of Remedios, New Mexico, Historic Site Named New Mexico Town of the Year. His parents had sent it, but there was a note scribbled on the bottom of the page by Tía Parada, too: Matito, you must come, if you can, I want to see you. A secret. A secret? What now?

Matt flipped through it. Anyone who had grown up in New Mexico, as he had, or traveled widely through its little towns and villages would know, without the benefit of a headline, that the large color photo had been taken in the town of Remedios.

The photos had been shot in that actinic violet light of the southwest, showing the historic plaza and the famous church of Remedios. Matt had told his compatriots of the field his stories about Remedios and its odd church that visitors gawked at, but he could see as he talked that they were thinking, oh, here’s Mateo telling us another of his far-fetched, maybe homesick, yarns about his Tía Parada and his home town. You know, that church of ours, Matt had told his colleagues of the earth, I’ll bet it has had almost as many photographs taken of it as the Louvre, or at least that’s what we say at home.

But he never had photos of his own to back him up. And here, fortuitously, the magazine arrived with the hard evidence. The cover showed a curious little Catholic church, the landmark of Remedios, really, a church with an unusual religious facing. Picture post cards of the church had been taken from every angle in every year since picture post cards were popular, all making certain its strange icon was prominently in focus.

It was said that the large Star of David underlay the Cross on the front wall of the old church because of Isaac Steamer, his best friend Steve’s great great grandfather who had come to the area about 15 years before the Civil War, from up North, Chicago, maybe even more easterly, from a time in New York perhaps, just after docking from somewhere in Europe. It is clear that at the time nobody in town knew what a Star of David looked like, or how many points it had, except Isaac Steamer. But no one is around any longer to give this a stamp of certainty. The lore of Remedios has always been historically befuddled.

From the very beginning old Mr. Steamer had made clear that the church was to be Catholic, though certainly the old Steamer patriarch had hoped Catholics would let him borrow it a few times a year for his own holidays. Of course there was no synagogue in Remedios in those days… nor is there today.

It is called the Church of Cures, or Iglesia de Remedios. Everything in or near Remedios seems to be related to recovery. There’s the nearby city of Lost and Found. The local hospital is called in convoluted Remedios Spanglish a vive son something close to Get Well All. The actual name from its inception was Alverson Clinic, put up by the Presbyterian Church just after World War II.

Matt decided to walk the two miles across the savannah, where he knew Pepita and Pepe, as they asked to be called, were examining the strength of the new slender green soy bean fingers that fluttered their awakening hello from the earth. When he first came to Maquinchao he’d been warned about the snakes, and had been given a First Aid kit, which he carried all the time. But after three months he was no longer anxious about being bitten; he had come to imagine that, by now, the snakes recognized his steps and knew his habits, knew, too, that his intentions were not unkind. They kept out of sight. Of course, there was always the possibility that he might have the bad luck to disturb a mother snake encircling her new bowl of spaghetti. And then, poor Matt. But he trudged on to where his friends were working, eyes to the grass.

He called to them when he was nearly a football field away. Then, standing above them as they caressed the new sprouts, he said, "Hey, I’ve got something to show you. Of course, they were right to think that not everything he said was the truth. Like most, he came to these remote places and reinvented himself a little. Honest and pure of heart, Pepita and Pepe knew that full well themselves. Their real names had been Evita Sanchez and Juan Perón Yacaya, and they admitted it was a relief to get those names out of their craw. Radical Argentinians, they had been driven to the far left and finally to the earth, they joked, at least in part by the uneasy weight of their unfortunate given names.

Matt stabbed with his index finger at the curious church. They made big eyes, squeezed their mouths together as though they would whistle, delighted to admit that he had told them one truth.

Unusual, right? Cardinal Angelo Roncalli, when he heard there was this church of ours in Remedios, New Mexico, offered up prayers for it. When he became Pope John XXIII, they say he remembered to bless it—if you could believe that. Matt smiled at his co-workers.

Pepita and Pepe nodded. They could believe it. Matt tipped his Texas Rangers’ baseball cap given him by a special friend in Dallas. I’ve been thinking, maybe I should go back for the celebration.

"¿La sangre llama, Mateo? Pepe asked.

Was the blood calling? Matt preferred not to think of it that way. When nostalgia called, it was often a trap.

Now, for some reason, he recalled a time at his house in Remedios when all the family and guests were moving toward the dining room where the traditional Friday prayers were offered. Matt tapped Steve’s arm, his eyes directing his friend to a side pocket where Matt exposed the tip of a silver flask. With only a quarter turn of his head he could see Steve foresaw a bracing shot on the patio before prayers. It was not considered disrespectful to step out for a breath of fresh air, to gather oneself before the devotion began. Often guests and family made their way outside or to the bathroom at this point to wash up, perhaps re-apply lipstick. The flask, however, was a new refresher.

I don’t know why, but we’re always on the edge of war—–skirmishes, my father calls them—in this house— Matt laughed, or so it seems. He offered Steve the flask first. Go ahead. We earned it. It’s a great tequila from my cousin Rey in San Elizario. It’s an añejo tequila and makes that famous ‘Conmemorativo’ brand seem like sugar-water from a cheap country still. I stopped to see Rey before coming here. He’s been saving it for me.

Steve took a belt. Hey, that’s good, Matty, really good, and, thanks for being a pal. He raised the little flask in a gesture of a toast.

Por nada, Stevito. Let’s just enjoy it. Let’s not talk about the tensions, okay? He gestured toward the house. Say, actually I was interested in a story I’d overheard you telling Tía Parada about a long ago Rabbi who became a priest and then tried to convert his brothers. Painfully ironic, no? God! His fellow Jews must have hated him.

Not just a priest. He’d been the main Rabbi of Burgos, numero uno, Steve said, I did read one inquisition historian who believed he did it to save the Jews— Steve ran a finger across his throat —from the dungeons and the inquisitors.

Matt tilted his head to take that in fully, then nodded rapidly. Well, I could see that—

You see, there had already been a recent slaughter of Jews in Seville— Steve said.

Yes, more irony, another twist.

It was not a good century for the Jews. Not that the others that followed were peaches and cream.

You hold a grudge, Stevito?

No, it’s just yet another painful affair in a Jew’s heart.

Matt reached out and squeezed Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s smile thanked him.

He took a shot and offered the flask to Steve. We’ll get bombed, Steve worried, but drank.

The Friday prayers will go quicker. Say, Steve, have you ever been to Tía Parada’s house in the mountains, you know, where she lived with Ajax?

Sure. I really loved that pueblito. Man, it’s a curious little town.

I’ve been too. What did you like best about it, Stevito?

Best—?

I mean, what moved you?

Moved me, hmm. Hey, I’m going to need another shot for that question.

Steve paused to drink, consider. What moved me in God’s Kingdom? Well, on the main street of the pueblito—on ‘Sendero de Penitentes’—in front of a stonecutter’s shop there were sample gravestones on display. One was the stone of a baby who lived one week. His name was Jacob Israel Vanel. The inscription read: ‘Requerdos de sus padres.’ Well, I thought… in the memory of their fathers… and clearly, from the name of the boy, the fathers were Jacob and Israel… and Vanel, I thought, why it could have been a shortened version of Abravanel. Matty, Abravanel was one of the noble Jewish family names of Spain. The family claimed it was descended directly from King David. The Abravanels came to Iberia from the Holy Land six centuries before Christ—some time after the destruction of the Temple of Solomon. I’m a history guy. So seeing it had to move me, y’know?

Steve was a professor of history at Emory University in Atlanta. His was a short, wirey, energetic, blond guy. There are a lot of Mexican-Americans in Remedios who could fit that description, Matt knew, but, of course, none of them were blond. Matt’s father, Hernán, always said Steve was a little bushy-tailed, peppy guy, smart, first in his class, an early bird. And Matt aways resisted pointing out that Steve could be a rabbit or a bird, but probably not both.

It’s true. We Mexicans are always taking these old biblical names, Matt said, then paused because more human terms imposed themselves on him. The baby boy… only one week old. Sad. Steve, whadda say we go in now. I want to give some private thoughts to the little boy, Jacob Israel.

But you didn’t tell me what moved you, Matty.

Yours was so touching, I see now what moved me pales by comparison.

Cut that out! Come on, tell!

Oh, it was just that the people up there have a certain warmth, they seemed so relaxed, it’s like… they’ve stopped looking. They’ve found peace. And somehow they make you feel immediately a part of it, too.

I guess that’s why Tía Parada goes up there.

That was only part of why Tía Parada went up to the mountains, Matt knew. There were also the memories. He shuddered at the thought of the horrifying death of her baby. A young woman, hardly more than a girl, and a baby she never really had a chance to get to know. He wondered why Tía Parada hadn’t had any other babies. Had she tried? Matt could see that a gruesome death could shut off both mind and body. Poor thing, poor Tía Parada.

You okay, Matty? Steve interrupted his thoughts. You’re lookin’ a little down.

Matt managed a smile, shook the flask. Oh, no. I think we finished all the tequila already.

His friends saw the puzzled expression, unsure whether it was of fear or loneliness, maybe it was a mixture of both. At the same time, Matt suddenly became aware that he had trudged well past the friendly snakes to show his Argentine friends the magazine featuring little Remedios. It must mean I am being beckoned, he thought.

The year, the time, the occasion didn’t matter, or even the celebration. Whenever he started thinking of a trip home, he’d try to wipe his brain clean of any dark thoughts. He’d learned not to bring his dirty laundry with him—not to his mother and father anyway. Just keep a smile on his brain. That’s the way to get through it, he knew: avoid that perpetual grinding in the souls of the family. Matt could feel it even here in Maquinchao. Some Raels stood up to anything with a stubbornness not always in their best interest.

Like Isaac. Say what you want about Isaac—for Matt his uncle the priest would always be defined by something he’d told his parishioners before summoning them to partake of the Eucharist. For all of you who feel prepared, please come forward. Matt had realized even this was a concession to the Bishop. An hour earlier, in his office behind St. Blas Church in Los Angeles, Isaac had told Matt the bishop was on him—the diocese had let it be known in no uncertain terms that a parish priest must make every deliberate effort to prevent communion with God for those who have not made a confession. My uncle the priest, the defiant priest. You never could tell Uncle Isaac what belonged to God and what didn’t. A devout and true Catholic, he still had his own thoughts. He’d chosen the ordination name Andreas. When Matt had asked him why, he was surprised with the answer his Uncle Isaac gave, but he admired him for it. He didn’t know if Isaac had told others in the family.

On the other hand, Matt’s father, Hernán, Isaac’s older brother, walked the walk, talked the talk. The Church was right. Always.

Maybe the truth is that everyone in the family sits fat in his own convictions. Matt knew you couldn’t tell Uncle Isaac anything and you couldn’t tell his father anything. They had it figured out. As for him, he’d take those special tales of his Tía Parada—even if, well, maybe they were sometimes far-fetched. Say, that’s a reason to go home, even if there wasn’t a celebration, he realized. Besides, the Town of the Year celebration, what was waiting for him in Remedios. Who was mad at whom this time?

Dear, Tía Parada, I’ll come home and you’ll save me! Or maybe we’ll save each other.

Tía Parada

I worry about these celebraciónes historícas in Remedios. They make me uneasy.

Once when I was a little girl, maybe 7 or 8, there was a big parade in Remedios. It had something to do with an anniversary for Juan de Oñate. I think the parade marked 300 or 400 years since he first raised the flag of old Mexico—or was it New Spain?—in Remedios.

On the day of the parade I wandered into my father’s room and at that moment I saw he was crawling under his bed. When he saw me, he put his finger to his lips to keep me from giving away his hiding place. He crawled all the way under so I couldn’t see him without bending to peek. Then he stuck his head out from under the bed. These parades are trouble, he whispered. Something bad always turns up. I don’t want to be around for this year’s explosion.

I sense trouble brewing in the Rael house. There’s a . . . what do you call it . . . ? Yes, a drawback, to being able to hear so good.

I have never forgotten his hiding, and the warning about special celebrations. It’s been true so often in my lifetime, too. I remember a cousin going mad, running around the plaza naked, in front of the Governor, embarrassing the entire town and especially the family. And at the parade following the naming of our plaza as a national landmark, an old Rael uncle took seriously ill, and with the priest by his bedside, he cursed the church and its teachings with his last breath. Ay, what a scandal!

Will something happen this time?

I think so. You see, the trouble with hearing them next door is that I also can hear Hernán’s voice sounding unhappy. He feels . . . una afrenta . . . an insult, yes, an affront. He feels that his dear friend and business partner, David Steamer, has said things about him that he finds unforgivable. Hernán thinks David has disrespected him and maybe even all the Hispano people around here! And Cha Cha steams him up. I’m ashamed to say I heard it all. And I imagined the rest as though I was listening to a radio soap opera. The difference was that I was one of the characters . . .

________________

I hope you don’t believe that story of hers, Hernán?

A seated Hernán Rael looked up at his wife without answering. His face was pinched empasizing its square shape. Maintaining her defiant demeanor, her fighting pose, she kept arms at her hips, hands clenched into fists.

You believe it, don’t you?

Why would Tía Parada lie to me, Cha Cha?

Because your old auntie makes things up to suit herself! And because she loves that Steamer family!. You hear her saying ‘Stevito this, Stevito that,’ all the time. She doesn’t want you to think ill of them ever.

You’re wrong, Cha Cha. She certainly doesn’t favor Steve over our kids. She’s just being affectionate to all. Please don’t make things up like that against her or I won’t be able to take your objections seriously.

His wife’s face, with those perfect lips, grew almost as red as her pale lipstick. She looked ready to stamp her foot. But some more reasonable thought seemed to have stayed her hand, or rather her foot. I still say it’s a wild, made-up story for the benefit of the Steamers.

What reason would she have?

Because she likes them. And because years ago they were always nice to her and to Ajax Franklin when everyone else thought their romance would come to no good.

No, Cha Cha, you’re reaching… maybe for some reason of your own.

How dare you! It was Cha Cha in fighting form. What reason!? What reason of my own!?

Leslie. Leslie and Steve.

Leslie and Steve? Are you loco? This is about the Steamers offending Mexicans. Maybe down below, your anger with the Steamers is about your daughter, but that’s not what’s upsetting me. How dare the Steamers insult us! As if we were poor Mexicans they had helped here in Remedios! Our families have always had pride and property. The Steamers are the newcomers to New Mexico!

I spoke to David Steamer about it.

Oh, yes, and how did that rato explain the insult?

He apologized. Said he was showing off, asked that I forgive him.

You’re not going to accept that apology, are you?

I know you think I shouldn’t. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it would be best if we… parted company with the Steamers. But his face grew despondent. After all, he shook his head wearily, those years in business together.

Of course, let’s separate, Cha Cha said. She started to walk back and forth, still looking furious. "we don’t