THE NEW YEAR

 THE NEW YEAR

"How did his hand become crippled?", she asked. Perfect timing. Just as if it had been planned, the door came ajar. A Mom peeked in. He noticed his wife, thought better of the answer but, characteristically, did it anyway. "In a knife fight." The door shut quickly. Footsteps scurried away. "A night fight?" his little boy asked.  "A knife fight," the older girl corrected, anxious not to break the momentum.   The kids howled, wanting to know the details of a thing he had broached as a secret he would share with them. "Your daddy was in a knife fight?" Here he was, sitting in the little boy's cocoon of a room irresponsibly assailing their guileless overprotected upper class sensibilities with stories from the underbelly of his life. Why?          They had stayed home on New Year's Eve just watching pay television and hanging out with the family. The holiday always made him maudlin about coasting down the other side of life's bell curve. It was a time when - as one friend put it - you found yourself reliving the top ten blunders of your life. The mistakes you made in your life, regrets with your parents and with your own kids seemed a cruel circle. He had been okay until this transcendental death scene in Little Women where one of them had died and the lights had dimmed. It had blind-sided him, pushing him over the holiday edge and flooding him with images of his own mother's death.          His terminally ill mother who had died that year had hung on for weeks past the doctor's estimates. She had survived on droppers of water and morphine and grit, obviously terrified of what lay beyond and, characteristically, having her petulant way and refusing to go. She was staying, coño .  When death finally had overcome her last defiant act that night, she had blown out all of the lights in his brother's house and took the house next to it too, plunging the gathering of relatives into darkness and the now wailing mourners into a scene from Dante's Inferno. Remembering that night and the events of those horrible weeks pushed him over the edge to his secret tears, sad memories and wells of regrets. He sat there watching the show through his tears. His wife and sister-in-law knew where he was. "I guess we'll just sit here and make believe we don't know that you're crying." They laughed nervously. "Let me put Carlos to bed," he said, excusing himself.            The son, a five-year-old who had of late taken to fantasizing himself to be different animals, had also taken to sleeping on a pallet made on top his bed. "Help me build my nest. I'll be the baby bird and you be the papa bird." They fluffed their pillows into a nest, laying in the darkness, a dim nightlight their campfire. Sad and obsessed, blindsided by the reminders of life and his fear of mortality, he grasped for stories from the fountain of his youth - of fireflies in a Newark cemetery, of funerals for his sister's butterfly, of water balloon fights with his clan of cousins and brothers and sisters. Their closeness was cemented by this firelight chat as his memories spewed out in a conspiracy of revelation.            The boy was curious. But more than that, he was patient well beyond his years, a father to the man who told him about life in the North East, of universes far far away in a time long forgotten but now shared in this their secret first communion.  The father mused at how much of his life he had managed to change and how he had changed with it. "You know that when I was a kid aunt Lydia didn't live with us? She lived with tia."  The child thought a minute. "Was titi adopted?" The man thought about his oldest sister who called their mother tia and their tia, mami. He didn't go into their special bond, each the product of a different failed marriage.  Not that his other brothers and sisters ever treated him differently, if anything they were reverential. It never occurred to any of them, including himself, that he was anything but a full-fledged brother. But, even though he was the oldest brother in a latino family, it was they who protected him from the old man's mistreatments.           But his sister was special. She was the oldest, but she wasn't there. He always regretted not having had her with him all of the time. He understood the pain of her isolation and abandonment. He never forgave his mother for giving her away, for making all of the mistakes a peasant girl might make when she lands in another century, trades one jungle for another.  He didn't go into the violent fights that had always divided the family. Either his mother had abandoned his sister or his aunt had stolen her, he wasn't sure these days about anything his mother had told him. "No, baby, that's just the way things worked out." The child's face betrayed that he didn't understand but he said nothing.          The mental journey landed the father on the first time he met the other side of his family. Where the countryside houses had no running water, no glass in the windows, no floor coverings and had made him long to be back in Jersey City. The parselas, agrarian reform homesteads reserved by the government to insure the very poor had land, were carved into the clay bluffs and overlooked the sugarcane central, the kids a wild bunch of urchins, his father's wife a shy and gentle lady.  He went to see his grandmother. From the minute he began the walk to her house he could feel the intensity of her stare. She waited for him on the veranda dressed in a simple cotton smock, her long gray hair pulled back in the Pentecostal style, her hair and aquiline nose making her look like a dignified Indian chief.            But as he neared, she broke. She squirmed with obvious anticipation, jumping up and down like a Snoopy-footed four-year-old. She cried immense tears of joy. "Hola, Abuelita ." "I've been waiting for you all my life," she said, crying tears of joy and hugging him tightly. "I swore I wouldn't die until I saw you."  She made up for all of the years of failed grandmotherly doting and they loved each other for finally filling a void, but he left her within a few months and never saw her again.  Thinking about her made him angry and sad.      He focused on his dad. "You want me to tell you about the first time I ever met my father?" The darkness intensified. The boy's face became somber.           It was a flood of soporific memories like bad writing or a shitty Grade B movie script: The car dogging the street like the constant tropical sun that eventually burns away the impertinent morning chill; the license tag, its color, inscription, authorizing its languid movements in their uptight neighborhood of burglar bar decorated, bunker-looking concrete homes; the passengers craning their necks like tourists misplaced in this suburban geometry; one wearing a pava, a straw hat and the cultural equivalent of a Texan's Stetson. "It's a publico . They must be looking for a fare," the younger teenager said. They watched from the slab of their flat faux porch, two boys, twin gargoyles in canvas wingchairs....           "I didn't meet my father until I was sixteen. I quit high school and joined my mother in..."           The door opened and his wife and niece entered. "What are ya'll doing?" Curtly he told her the obvious, that they were sharing a private moment. "I'm telling Carlos stories about when I was kid." He was passive about the interruption. "Can Grace join you guys?" "Sure." The birds made a space in the nest for her.      "Start the story again so Gracie can hear it," the little boy said. "I never knew my dad when I was growing up." They were quiet and uneasy. "I only had a picture of him as a young man." "Was he my age?" the four-year-old boy asked. "He was a man, baby." "Was he fifty?," the girl asked. "Fifty? That's OLD," Carlos said. The father laughed. "You know what baby? I'm fifty." It was an admission of his youth, not his age.          "I guess he was somewhere between twenty and thirty years old. The photo was the only father that I knew". He remembered how he had carried the picture in his wallet like a valuable religious artifact. A saint who never answered his prayers, or his letters. The prodigal dad.  "When I was sixteen I moved to the island and sent my father a letter but I never got an answer. I was there six or seven months when a taxi pulled up in front of the house. The driver, a little white-haired man, asked for me. It was my dad." He flashed on the real west side story, of accounts of weapons and fights, of his father climbing up fire escapes to drag his young bride home from the refuge she had taken with her sisters. Of the commotion when he went into his cousin's window. Of other stories.          "I didn't know a lot about my dad. I knew that he played the guitar and that his hand was crippled because he had been in a knife fight when he was a young man. He was a Romeo and supposedly a real man, a macho. He played the guitar with his barber's comb. When the driver walked up he shook my hand and told me that he was my father but I already knew."  "Because of his crippled hand, right?" The kids were excited. "I almost fainted. My knees got weak and I wanted to sit down. I waited for this moment all of my life and the whole thing didn't last more than five minutes."          "Did he come inside to meet your mom?" "We just stood out on the street. He asked me how I was. I said 'fine' and that was it. His car was full of people he was bringing to the airport from the other end of the island and everyone was looking at us. There I was out on the street feeling tiny and sad, happy and embarrassed.  He told me I was always welcome at his house and that was it. He left. Later I got in a real big fight with my step-dad and I left the house to live with him and his family but that didn't last too long cause I left to join the air force. I was on my own by the time I was seventeen."           That's when they had asked him how his hand had gotten mangled and when he had told them about the "knife fight". He had neither the time nor the inclination to tell them the whole sordid story, that really would have been irresponsible. But it was a good beginning. It was time to share with the little guy just who he was and, maybe, help him understand how he'd gotten to the present.      Their mothers burst into the room, a maternal swat team come to rescue the kiddies from the pervert who was telling them who knows what. "We came to find out just what it is that you're telling the kids." Each mother took protective custody of her child. Away they went for debriefings, a deprogramming, if need be.           The Dad laughed for a long time. Hysterically, almost. It wasn't that funny but he couldn't stop laughing. He laughed as he undressed for bed. He guffawed while he brushed his teeth and made the necessary preparations for his usually fitful sleep, for his encounter with the frightening chasm of the night.  But this time he had no room for the fear of the void. He was still terribly amused and upbeat about the whole affair - at himself, the kids, their moms, their wonderfully middle class lives. MY FAMILY. He lay in bed, closed his eyes and for the first time in years remembered only the pleasant things about his parents, how much he owed them and how much like them he was. He remembered that he loved them and wished them a happy new year.  Then he slept. Main Page The Day Doña Irma Died  The Day Doña Irma Died by Kathryn Runco        It was hot and there were too many people and the unexpected had happened. Doña Irma was not dead and didn't seem to be in any hurry to die. In fact, she seemed determined to the last shred of her diminished strength to keep on living despite the agony she must have been enduring. It wasn't going to be a pretty or peaceful death. She was DYING. In pain, in confusion, suffering. And fighting to hold on.        The woman was there because her husband had phoned her office days before. "She's dying" he had said. And "Find Zack, get him some clothes for his grandmother's funeral and get on a plane." She had done those things. She had closed her office. Packed a black dress. Found her stepson and sent him to buy a blazer and some khakis. Reserved plane tickets, held a rental car at the Tampa airport and made hotel reservations. Because she was a Southern woman she knew that death required food and liquor and coffee. Along with the black dress, she packed her cookbook so that she could glaze a ham or bake a cake--the ritual preparation of food required of all adult Southern women when there is a funeral to throw.        There is comfort in ritual, for those performing the ritual, at any rate. Doing the familiar acts of cooking and serving food, making coffee, pouring a drink served to reassure her that nothing has really changed and that grief and heartbreak and untied ends were not at the doorstep. And because her husband's family was huge and noisy, a retreat to the kitchen could provide some time alone, down time from the hysteria that she expected to accompany Doña Irma's death.        But that is not what happened, at least not immediately. "You should see her. She looks like a skeleton." Her husband's eyes were wide and scared and he looked like a little boy. He had been there for days on the death watch. He had seen enough of the suffering and was ready, maybe even panicked, for it to end. But it wasn't going to end that day. Or the next. Or for many more days. So she saw her mother-in-law and her husband had been right. All that was left of the fat little lady was a skeleton and that skeleton was not at anything even approaching rest.        Doña Irma was in pain. She was dehydrated because her throat and stomach could not accept food or fluid. She was hot and her skin was mottled. She did not breathe easily and she choked on bile so black and vile that her daughters and daughters in law and grand daughters had to hold tissues soaked with bay rum to their faces sometimes. But she could talk a little and she could hang on to the life force.        The woman joined her sisters-in-law and, together, they watched and helped and provided awkward nursing. None of them were trained in caring for a woman so ill, but they did what they could. Ice chips. Tiny sips of sweet, thick Puerto Rican coffee. Sponges soaked in drops of morphine. They tried to ease her. They encouraged her to let go, to allow herself to stop suffering. They all secretly wondered if that was the right advice. They were (mostly) her daughters-in-law. Did the women married to her children really have the right to tell her to die? Whether or not, they told her....begged her. She was suffering and they were suffering and the children and the grandchildren couldn't have held out for much more of it, so they asked her to give up and go to God.        She did her best not to accommodate them or God in that request. The woman probably knew Doña Irma least of all of the woman attending her. She was the most newly married into the family. The woman knew some family history and some she did not know. She had never lived in the same city nor visited with the old lady much. But the two women shared some things beyond the matriarch's oldest son and youngest grandson. They shared a hardness of spirit and a huge streak of stubbornness. They were tough broads, both of them, and neither were inclined to give an inch.        Through the woman's pregnancy of that youngest grandchild, they had worked out an arrangement. The woman would not speak her broken Spanish to Doña Irma and the old lady would not speak her broken English to her daughter-in-law. So they spoke in different languages, understood each other perfectly and maintained their respective high grounds. A stand off. A pyrrhic victory for them both. Maybe if there had not been so much high ground the younger could have explained to the elder what she had seen of her husband's wounds and the elder could have understood just how deep those wounds ran. Maybe the elder woman could have explained some of the mystery of her life and warned against wanting too much and about the dangers of being mistaken and stubborn at the same time. But those things never happened.        Doña Irma won the battle. She never spoke a word of English to the woman during all of those terrible days of the death watch. The woman spoke deathbed Spanish to her mother-in-law. "Abre su boca" when it was time for the morphine sponges and " Quiere agua, Doña?" She spoke soothing words learned from the other women when the old lady choked. The old lady would respond sometimes with a "Si" or "Cafe, por favor". And one hot bright afternoon when the woman thought she would scream from the heat and the crowd of in-laws and from being a witness to such prolonged agony, "Kathryn es muy bonita, muy bonita". Doña Irma had never told the woman before that she thought her pretty. It kept the woman from screaming and it made her cry.        The woman's intimacy with her husband was routine and "regular". The normal exchanges of confidences and secret pain, revelations of anguish shared between spouses were a part of their marriage. The knowledge of the other person that was the product of living together; which buttons to push and which to avoid was a part of their bond. The intimacy of another person's family was not so familiar to the woman. Discovering the scars which transcended the individual and marred the entire group was not unknown to her but she was not prepared to experience such an intimate and enormous group revelation. Seeing the levels of fear and anger and loathing and love that happens only in an immediate family and the knowledge that these emotions were bared to her only as happenstance of time and place was harrowing.        These people were suffering and hurting each other, themselves, their children, and she could not tell them what she saw happening because she was not one of them. Only a daughter-in-law. And so she did what she could to comfort her husband and his family. She cooked gringo food for the family because she couldn't cook for their palates. She held Doña Irma's hand and chipped ice and wiped the dying old lady with cold clothes. She would have changed the diapers but Doña Irma was so dehydrated that there was seldom a change needed. She prayed for an end to the agony and for the old lady to reach enough peace that she would finally let go. But she could not tell the old lady's children to lay off each other and to stop looking back. It wasn't her place; it wasn't her family; they weren't her scars; Doña Irma wasn't her mother.        The woman, one of the sons and his wife were there when the old lady died. There had been some scares in the preceding days when the old lady choked horribly and had to be turned over, the daughters-in-law raking out the bile that clogged her throat. There were times when it did not seem that Doña Irma could possibly wake and speak again because no one, even she, could breathe so little and be in so much pain and keep living. But in the end, she drew a slow breathe, exhaled it, and her chest did not rise again. After a few moments the son felt for the pulse in her throat and when he did not find the rhythm, the woman walked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen to tell the other sons, drinking at the table, that the struggle had ended.        She wondered at their shock. "What have they expected all this time?" she thought as the sons rushed to the back of the house and as she poured herself a glass of the bourbon left sitting on the table. The brothers and sisters, spouses, grandchildren poured into the stifling bedroom to be with the old body, to kiss her goodbye. The woman took her bourbon to the patio and sat by the pool, wanting to be away from the grief and the crying grandchildren and the noise brought on by the death. She wanted to sit in the hot, damp night and be alone but because the old lady's spirit was so strong, because she was so stubborn and so afraid to die, it would not be that easy.        The old lady's soul took with her the electricity in the house abruptly, leaving the hot house without air conditioning and light and scaring the shit out of her family. In the hot dark hysteria, the woman found her husband and they laughed because they were tired and spooked and because the grief was escalating all around them. Their laughter was not understood by the others but the family had spent the last weeks not understanding each other and not trying very hard to make sense of all of their shared scars and pains and love and hopes. It was not to be expected that the woman's laughter with her husband would be understood nor did it matter.        What happened next was also routine, "regular". A funeral was planned. Flowers were ordered. Aunts and uncles and cousins were called. The children of Doña Irma buried her and with her they buried the hope of reconciling the mystery and pain of the life they had spent with their mother. They lost with her much of their collective hope of understanding their mother and her life and they wounded each other deeply in the process. In the end, they couldn't even agree on the pronunciation of their last name, some preferring the Spanish inflection, others the English. The woman did not stay for the funeral because she would not willingly witness any more grief and would not watch the brothers and sisters strike out at each other.        She left the family a few years later, with regret. They were loving people who had been good to her. They had beautiful names and their mothers' eyes and they had shared with her their culture, one of their men, and the intimacy of the death of their matriarch. She would be forever bound to them through emotion and through the blood of her son and she would always wish that she could have told them, on the day that Doña Irma died, to lay off each other and to stop looking back. 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