story of how the Virgin had presented herself to the little Indian boy in Mexico and about the miracles she had wrought. My mother said the Virgin was the saint of our land, and although there were many other good saints, I loved none as dearly as the Virgin. It was hard to say the rosary because you had to kneel for as long as the prayers lasted, but I did not mind because while my mother prayed I fastened my eyes on the statue of the Virgin until I thought that I was looking at a real person, the mother of God, the last relief of all sinners.
God was not always forgiving. He made laws to follow and if you broke them you were punished. The Virgin always forgave.
God had power. He spoke and the thunder echoed through the skies.
The Virgin was full of a quiet, peaceful love.
My mother lit the candles for the brown madonna and we knelt. “I believe in God the Father Almighty—” she began.
He created you. He could strike you dead. God moved the hands that killed Lupito.
“Hail Mary, full of grace—”
But He was a giant man, and she was a woman. She could go to Him and ask Him to forgive you. Her voice was sweet and gentle and with the help of her Son they could persuade the powerful Father to change His mind.
On one of the Virgin’s feet there was a place where the plaster had chipped and exposed the pure-white plaster. Her soul was without blemish. She had been born without sin. The rest of us were born steeped in sin, the sin of our fathers that Baptism and Confirmation began to wash away. But it was not until communion—it was not until we finally took God into our mouth and swallowed Him—that we were free of that sin and free of the punishment of hell.
My mother and Ultima sang some prayers, part of a novena we had promised for the safe delivery of my brothers. It was sad to hear their plaintive voices in that candle-lit room. And when the praying was finally done my mother arose and kissed the Virgin’s feet then blew out the candles. We walked out of la sala rubbing our stiff knees. The candlewick smoke lingered like incense in the dark room.
I trudged up the steps to my room. The song of Ultima’s owl quickly brought sleep, and my dreams.
Virgen de Guadalupe, I heard my mother cry, return my sons to me.
Your sons will return safely, a gentle voice answered.
Mother of God, make my fourth son a priest.
And I saw the Virgin draped in the gown of night standing on the bright, horned moon of autumn, and she was in mourning for the fourth son.
“Mother of God!” I screamed in the dark, then I felt Ultima’s hand on my forehead and I could sleep again.
Cinco
¡Antoniooooooo!” I awoke.
“Who?”
“¡Antonioooooo! Wake up. Your uncle Pedro is here—”
I dressed and raced downstairs. Today was the day we went to El Puerto. My uncle had come for us. Of all my uncles I loved my uncle Pedro the most.
“Hey, Tony!” His embrace lifted me to the ceiling and his smile brought me safely down. “Ready to pick apples?” he asked.
“Sí tío,” I replied. I liked my uncle Pedro because he was the easiest one to understand. The rest of my uncles were very gentle and kind, but they were very quiet. They spoke very little. My mother said their communication was with the earth. She said they spoke to the earth with their hands. They used words mostly when each one in his own way walked through his field or orchard at night and spoke to the growing plants.
My uncle Pedro had lost his wife long before I was born and he had no children. I felt good with him. Also, of all my uncles, my father could talk only to my uncle Pedro.
“Antonio,” my mother called, “hurry and feed the animals! Make sure they have enough water! You know your father will forget them while we are away!” I gulped the oatmeal she had prepared and ran out to feed the animals.
“Deborah!” my mother was calling, “are the bags packed? Is Theresa ready?” Although El Puerto was only ten miles down the valley, this trip was the only one we ever took and it meant a great deal to her. It was the only time during the year when she was with her brothers, then she was a Luna