Halloween Blooms

             It was an old cemetery. No one was ever there. The place sat forgotten on a tiny knob of a hill behind the Goodyear Tire store and Bob’s Big Boy. Lydia and Gary dared each other to leapfrog over the few headstones still standing. Some of the graves had sunk into the ground, the dirt appearing soft and disturbed over them. On a few of the older plots, the cousins found shiny handles and pieces of carved wood.

             They took one last look at each other before the jump. “Coffin maker, coffin taker, rise from the ground and let your spirit fly unbound,” they chanted, leaping across the grave on the last word. Their high-pitched laughter rode the wave of fear that one of them might land too short with a foot sinking into the soft, decayed earth. They had sworn to try to save each other, even if it meant that they, too, would be sucked into the bowels of the graveyard. There were a few close calls, but they survived.

            “Look! ” Gary pointed to a grave a few rows over. In the graying afternoon, and amidst the ruin around them, a dash of color stood out. They walked over to examine the bouquet of plastic flowers.  “They’re pretty.”

            Lydia lifted the bouquet from the shelter of the tombstone. “Yeah, real pretty.” The arrangement included flowers of all colors. A gold ribbon wound through it, giving it a valuable appearance. She looked around her. Dusty weeds sprouted on most of the graves. Further in, near a leafless tree, she saw another spot of color. “Over there!”

            A little dirty, the second bouquet was no less glorious. They squinted and scanned the cemetery, running from one end to the other when they spotted the flowers. One of the ribbons said In Remembrance, but that was okay. They ended up with four bouquets to take home to their mothers.

            On the walk home, they scavenged in the industrial dumpsters near the rail yard, but didn’t find anything interesting. “At least we got the flowers,” Gary said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Lydia looked away. His nose produced rivers of yellow snot. Year round.

            Lydia picked up her bouquets.  “It’s getting dark, we should head home.”  An Indian summer lingered well into October in Santa Fe, where it usually snowed for Halloween. Prospective ghouls, witches, vampires and werewolves knew they would not have to wear parkas over their costumes that night.  “I’m going as a gypsy.  Mama said I could wear make-up and earrings.” She looked at Gary to see if he was impressed.

            He hunched his bird-thin shoulders. “I have to use last year’s.” Gary was eight, and pale, and blond, and all the kids picked on him. Except for Lydia. Even she couldn’t resist sometimes. Today wasn’t one of those days.

            “Maybe we could make you look like a pirate,” she said.

            Gary lowered his head to the bouquets cradled in his arms as if he were sniffing them. “If Mama says it’s okay.”

            Their mothers, who were sisters, sat at the kitchen table smoking and drinking coffee. Lydia and Gary held the bouquets behind their backs, looked at each other, and then presented the plastic flowers.

            Lydia’s mom worked in a bar and had people skills. She handled the flowers gingerly, but smiled. Gary’s mother had conducted seances until the parish priest warned her not to. She turned red in the face and swept the bouquets off her lap as if they were on fire. She grabbed Gary’s thin arm, and shook him. “Where did you get these?” He turned frightened eyes to his cousin.

            “Lydia?” Her mother tried to look stern, forcing the corners of her mouth down in that way she did when she didn’t want to laugh.

            Gary’s mother squeezed his arm harder. Lydia could see her fingernails digging in. “You got these from the cemetery, didn’t you?”

            “Let them explain, Frances,” Lydia’s mom said. She and her sister stared into each other’s eyes. Frances loosened her grip on her son.

            “I thought you’d like them,” Lydia said. “They’re pretty.”

            “They’re from graves,” Frances said. “For dead people.”

            “Nobody was using them,” Lydia said. Her mother’s lips twitched again.

            “It’s a sin to steal from the dead,” Frances said. “They’ll come for them. They’ll pull your feet at night ”

            Gary and Lydia looked at each other, horrified. They hadn’t thought about this. The dead weren’t real. It was just pretend, all the stuff about the dead.

            “The dead,” Francis repeated, staring off into space, “the dead want what’s theirs.” She took a deep breath. “Take them back.”

            Lydia looked at her mom, who stared at her sister, deciding. “Take them back, honey. Run as fast as you can.” She reached for another cigarette.

            “It’s the thought that counts,” Lydia heard her mother say as the cousins ran out of the room.

            Lydia and Gary ran the eight blocks to the cemetery in growing darkness. They searched for the right graves, frightened and out of breath. Puffs of mist from their exhalations hovered like tiny ghosts in front of them.

            “Which graves?” Lydia asked, panicked. Gary’s teeth chattered, and his nose ran unheeded.

            In the far corner, near where they’d found the second bouquet, a man stepped away from the tree. One minute he wasn’t there, and then he was. Lydia and Gary had never seen another person at the cemetery. He wore a hat, and a long, flowing coat, and stared down at a crooked tombstone. He turned and glared in their direction. Then, he moved towards them, slow at first, and then taking giant steps. The cousins stood frozen. The man raised both arms in a pleading gesture, his hands opening and closing like pincers.

            Lydia flung her flowers at him. “Here!  Take them.” She ran in the opposite direction. Gary followed with his bouquets still tightly clutched to his chest. They ran hard, the chill night air burning their throats. Lydia looked over her shoulder a few times, but it was already dark. Somewhere along the way Gary had dropped his flowers.

            Their mothers said no more about the dead people’s flowers, and the cousins dressed for Halloween with shaking fingers. Trick-or-treating in their own neighborhood never yielded much, so Lydia’s mom took off work, and drove them across town to the new housing development.

            Built to house a new generation moving into Santa Fe, these homes had real sidewalks, attached garages, doorbells, and front yards bereft of broken glass. Flocks of neighborhood children scurried from door-to-door, while their parents, usually fathers, chatted at the curb. Lydia’s mom sat and smoked in the car. She’d roll forward as they worked the street, her progress occasionally blocked by the cars of other commuting trick-or-treaters.

            They returned to the car to exchange pillowcases brimming with candy for empty ones.  “That’s quite a haul.  Don’t you think you’ve got enough?” her mom asked the children’s retreating backs as they ran off to collect more treats.

            Halloween was not only great for all the free candy, but for the glimpse it gave of the inside of other people’s homes, of how they lived their lives. The people who answered the doors were young, and bursting with laughter. Sometimes they wore masks and costumes, and made ghoulish sounds to frighten trick-or-treaters. In one, several women sat on the laps of their boyfriends. At the next house, a man and a woman came to the door.

            “You don’t have a mask so you don’t get any candy,” the woman said to Lydia.

            “Of course, she can have candy,” the man said, and tried to grab the bowl from the woman. “See, her face is painted.”

            “No!”  The woman stamped her foot.  “You’re supposed to have a real costume. Not some cheap make-up ” They struggled with the bowl, and it spilled to the ground.

            “Look what you’ve done!”  The woman strode off, while the man scooped the candy up.

            Lydia's face burned beneath her Halloween makeup, but she held her head high, and grabbed Gary by the elbow, dragging him away.  “Let’s go!” 

            “Here,” the man said. He held handfuls of candy. Gary tried to return, but Lydia held onto him. “I’m sorry,” the man called after them.

            Lydia stomped down the pristine sidewalk. She marched forward, with Gary still in tow, neither looking to her left nor to her right. They passed several houses and reached the end of the block. These homes were still under construction, but one had its lights on. 

            She stopped and took a deep breath. “Last one?”  Gary shrugged.

            A tall man in a long coat opened the door. A hat shadowed his face. His hands dangled loosely at his sides. No light shone behind him, and no bowl brimming with candy was visible.

            “Trick-or-treat,” Gary chanted in his tinny voice, his eyes focused on his open bag.

            “Give you something good to eat?” the man said, his voice icky sweet. He smiled, revealing a mouthful of jagged, yellow teeth. He pointed at their bags with long, dirty fingernails. “But you have so much, already.”

            He leaned to his right inside his house. “An object of beauty, perhaps?” He held two plastic roses in his hand, and dropped one into Gary’s bag. Only then did her cousin look up. The man held the other rose out to Lydia, and recited, “A waxen rose upon the grave will not wither or decay.”

            He laughed, exhaling the damp smell of grave dirt into the children’s faces. His laughter hammered at their backs when the cousins ran down the sidewalk.

            “What is that man screaming about?” Lydia’s Mom asked as they tumbled into the car.

            “Go, Mom. Please go!”

            Lydia’s mom pulled away from the curb. “It sounded like he was saying the dead want something. Pretty spooky house, huh?”

            Lydia and Gary leaned into each other, holding hands, and said nothing. They could still hear the man’s laughter echoing inside the car. The sound of it followed them home, and seeped into their dreams along with his screams: the dead want what’s theirs.

This story has been reprinted several times in anthologies such as After Dark.

Happy Halloween!

The Tattoo Lady, Mother and Me

             I’ve come back to Santa Fe from my home in Los Angeles because Mother is ill with throat cancer and undergoing chemotherapy. All her teeth have been removed and her dentures look ridiculous, but I tell her she looks the same. She seems to believe me. She can’t wear the bottom plates, and so every meal is a challenge. She’s losing weight and has already lost her hair.  But she’s full of stories. I get the usual Tattoo Lady updates. "You know how fat Humpty Dumpty was?" she asks. "Well, Tattoo Lady is fatter than that.”

            The Tattoo Lady, her dead husband, her incarcerated son, her other recently released son, and her truant grandchildren provide Mom with stories to rival any soap opera. I imagine Tattoo Lady with tattoos all up and down her arms, across her chest, encircling a vast abdomen, and traveling down her dimpled backside.

            “And she never takes a bath," Mom says. I glance down at my mother's dirt encrusted fingernails.

            I'd tried to get her in for a manicure that morning, but she'd refused, stamping her foot in the salon and making a scene. "It's too much money," she said. The Vietnamese manicurist stood by patiently, the lower half of her face covered with a hygienic paper mask. "I like your mask," Mother said. "Can I have one?" I forced a smile, and guided Mom from the shop. Before we made it out, she spotted a quarter and swooped down on it. "And they say I can't see good." She pocketed the money. I heard a groan behind us, but didn't look back.

            I drive Mom home, to the adobe structure she'd built with dime and quarter tips and the child support check from my father. She lives with six or eight small, unruly dogs, four or six ungrateful cats, and one immortal finch. Then there are the feral cats that Mom calls her “homies.”

            She’s kind of a cat lady, but any non-housebroken pet can fill her need. She's had monkeys, ferrets, white rats, and sugar bats. I’m considered the animal hater in my New Mexico family, even though I have one dog, two cats, two hamsters and a snake.

            "I've lost my sense of smell," Mom says, excusing the mess. She resents my unwillingness to stay with her, and she refuses to understand why she doesn't get many visitors. It wasn't that bad when I was growing up. In those days, I cleaned the cat box and the dogs went outside to do their business. Her habits degenerated over time, but the potential for allowing the animals to take over was there long before.

            Mom trusts animals more than people.

            Her house is not set up to be inviting to guests, so we eat out everyday. We breakfast, lunch and dinner together. She doesn’t drive anymore, so I try to take her to the places that she can’t reach easily.  "Did you see that T.V. movie on Martha Stewart last night?" I ask over dinner.

            "I can't stand that woman," Mom says. "Do you like her?" She fixes me with a challenging look, but I recognize it only in retrospect, and stumble into the trap.

            "She's all right. I don't try all that stuff she demonstrates, but it's oddly relaxing–"

           

            "I hate her," Mom says.

            I laugh, and again I miss the warning. "She's amazing—"

            "Tattoo Lady likes her, too." Mother presses her lips together, and gives me that look again. "Watches her all the time."

            I stop mid sip of my gin and tonic and laugh, trying not to spit it across the table at her. The thought of Tattoo Lady, fatter and sloppier than Humpty Dumpty after he fell from the wall, sitting engrossed and happy as can be watching the pristine Martha Stewart is even too much for Mother. She laughs with me. "She does," Mom says. "Loves her and everything she does. Just like you."

            The next day, I take Mother to collect commodities—surplus food for seniors. She doesn't need them, doesn't even like most of it, but it's free and that's reason enough. "I pay my taxes," she says.

            Mom plans to pick up commodities for her friend, Ellen Romero. We swing by the Senior Citizen’s Center where 84-year old Ellen is the receptionist. Mom had volunteered here, as well, before she got sick. Ellen has her authorization papers ready. I get introduced all around. All the old people want to hug me. Mom goes from table to table chatting up her friends. She looks light on her feet, and full of fun and life, just like she did when she worked her tables, waitress light years ago. Her friends had been her fellow workers in those days, and they still are. The Center is where Mom first met the notorious Tattoo Lady.

            We discover that Mom needs to be recertified by Social Security before she can get her commodities. There are about 100 people waiting to be called, but Mom charges to the front of the line, saying that she has to go to chemotherapy in two hours. She shows them the pack she wears. Inside is a bag of chemicals attached by a silicone tube to a port in her chest, where the doctors have placed a special pump leading right to her heart. The workers are unimpressed: rules are rules.

            There are two windows occupied at the Social Security department, two miles away. An elderly couple is waiting, and a machine dispensing numbers is prominently displayed. Mom is number 92. One client is just leaving and Mom beelines for the open window. The lady explains that she must go by the rules, looks at her number, and calls 91. The elderly couple sit in a corner clutching their number. The lady calls 91 again, and they consult their slip of paper, adjusting their eyeglasses and discussing with each other if they are actually seeing the same number "91.” Meanwhile, Mom has continued to badger the lady in the window with her questions, so she finally relents and processes her request. As she hands the authorization to Mom, the couple holds up their paper.  "91," they call out.

            We head back to the commodities place. It's a big, metallic warehouse sitting on an unpaved mound of earth.  People park willy nilly, ignoring the blue handicapped parking spaces that have chaparral growing in them, almost obscuring the signs.  This is very different from Los Angeles where handicapped spaces are cherished and people fake limps in order to park in them. 

            Mom walks in brandishing her papers. We're told we'll have to wait until all the other people are attended to. This does not please Mother, and she launches into her chemo tirade, telling the woman in charge, the only one carrying an official clipboard, that she’s got a chemo appointment in half-an-hour, that the treatment is killing her, and that she’s lost all her teeth and her hair is falling out. She pulls off her wig. This time it works.

            "I'll get you in front, Nellie," the clipboard lady says, and dashes off. She pulls out a chair in front for Mom to be seated. Mom takes the chair until the clipboard lady turns her back, and then she gets up to talk with friends she’s spotted. Commodities are not just about food.

            We get processed and return to the car. Mom wants to flirt with the guys who load the boxes, so I drive the car around. "They're really nice here," she says. “But I won't let them push me around just because I’m old.”

            We go directly to the cancer clinic where Mom really does have an appointment to have more chemicals dumped into her. I buy her soup and juice and a brownie to nosh on while she's attached to the drip. She'll be hooked up for three hours.

            The plaza is only a few blocks away and I stroll into a few galleries before entering a mercantile.

            "I hate to spend money, but you should see that Tattoo Lady go though dough," Mother had told me earlier. I hide my purchases in the trunk of the car.

            She's still hooked up when I return. "I wet my pants," she says. "I was almost to the bathroom and just couldn't hold it anymore."

            "Are you cold?" I ask. The nurse brings her a blanket, and says she's going to be going to the bathroom a lot.           

           

            At dinner that night, my last night, we dine at the Red Lobster, Mom's favorite place. We're concerned that she won't be able to chew the lobster, but order it anyway. I start her off with clam chowder.  I order extra for her to take home.

            The next morning she's got a dental appointment. I call and ask her to wear the pants I bought her, not so much because I want to see her in them, as that I'm worried she'll still be wearing her peed in jeans.

            "Mom, try to clean your fingernails ‘cause you're going to be pointing to your dentures and your gums."

            "Okay," she says, and sniffs, offended to her core.

            It’s my last day with Mom, and I'm a bit teary when she comes out and gets in the car. She gives me a startled look, and turns away with that tight curl-of-the-lip.

            "Tattoo Lady cries a lot," she says.

            She's wearing the new outfit, but her fingernails are still black. She's carrying a box with her dentures, her partial bridge (from when she still had most of her teeth), and a small container holding all the teeth they pulled. At the dentist’s office, she picks up one of her former teeth and holds it out to him.

            "See how small my teeth were," she says. “I never had a cavity.” She opens the container holding her dentures. They float in water and she pokes at them. "These are just too big. They hurt me." We all stare down at the dentures. A piece of black crud comes loose from her nail and floats in the denture water. The dentist labors over her false teeth, trimming and refitting. Mom leaves happy, her choppers liberally lined with an analgesic.        

            “Are you hungry?” I ask, pleased that she’ll finally be able to chew. Things have been going great. Mom orders sausage and bacon with her eggs and pancakes. We smile across the table at each other. Then, she brings up The Dog.

            "What was that dog's name? You know, the one you killed?"

           

            Once, when my sons were little and Mom and I were talking long distance, I put her on the speakerphone so we could all hear. In tones reminiscent of a bedtime story she launched into a story of The Dog, a pet they didn't even remember, with me featured as the cruel dog-murdering queen. I'll never forget their innocent eyes sweeping up to me for confirmation.

            "I didn't kill the dog, Mom. I had her put down. Remember? She had cancer and the runs, and Eric was starting to walk, and he'd step into dog shit all the time?"

            Silence. I could hear her sucking on a cigarette on the other end of the telephone line, arming herself with the heat of the smoke in her lungs. She exhaled, biting her words. "Yeah, I'm glad you killed her. She might have suffered." This is not agreement. This is Mother making her point in that reverse logic bordering on evil way she's perfected. I glanced at the boys—the word killed shining in their eyes.

            "Euthanized, Mom. Not killed. Would you rather your grandson play in dog shit?"

            "Dog shit never hurt anybody," she said. The boys giggled, covering their little mouths with little hands, totally in agreement with Grandma on the dog shit issue. My oldest is twenty now, and he likes to tease me by asking if I miss my dog killing days.

           

            The dog shit episode has become a fond Grandma tale for them. Grandma as the wolf in disguise. But does that make me Little Red Riding Hood, still trying to please with my little basket of goodies?

            Over fifteen years have passed, and she still brings up The Dog. "What was that dog's name?" she asks again. Another trap that I fail to see. I could have just changed the subject, started talking about the dog I have now or her dogs or pointed at the fat man walking past the coffee shop window.

            "Sallie," I say.

            "That dog was so smart. She followed Eric everywhere. I still don't understand why you had her killed." She bites into a piece of bacon with her startling white dentures, and chews meditatively.

            It’s my last day in Santa Fe. My last morning with my mother. Things have been going well. I’ve agreed with her on everything except Martha Stewart. I decide to make a little speech, the kind that allows rational people to save face.

            “I think I made the right decision, Mom. The dog was very sick. The comfort and well being of my family meant more to me than the dog. For you, animals are more important than people, and you don't mind the problems. Your way works for you, my way works for me. It doesn't mean that you're right and I'm wrong. It's just a different way."

            She sips her coffee. Curls her lip. "Yeah, Tattoo Lady says the same thing."

This piece was first published in INK POT #3 - 2004, a literary journal.

Mom, my bro and me 

BULLIED: DIVERSITY, DIFFERENTIATION, DISTINCTION

In Santa Fe, New Mexico, I attended barrio schools and was bullied for my O’Briant surname. My classmates refused to believe my mom was Latina. Being a 50/50 was not easy. Diversity is a term I embrace and not just ethnically. I hate being stereotyped and having my choices restricted, not only in my life, but in the lives I create for my characters. I was very pleased when esteemed author Claudia Long invited me to be part of a blog adventure, initiated on Twitter #weneeddiversebooks and #diverselit, in which we answer the following questions:

Q. Why do you write what you do?

Most of my characters have been set apart from others in some way. A bullied child is an isolated child, and reading was my escape. Not only did it allow me to learn about other cultures, but books led me on a journey into our human past and even into the future. What I learned is that there is more that humans have in common with one another than what racially, ethnically or culturally separates us. The kids who bullied me acted out of ignorance that had been passed down for generations. I was lonely, but gained strength from my isolation; I learned to make my own path.

My first novel, The Sandoval Sisters’ Secret of Old Blood, won two literary awards. It tells the story of Anglo encroachment on New Mexico as they made real their vision of Manifest Destiny.

That’s the long way of saying that I began my historical research to answer the burning question that had so cruelly affected my youth: Why did the Latino kids in Santa Fe hate Anglos, especially Texans? 

Answering this question led to an examination of war, class, education, the role of women, religion and superstition during the Mexican American War. Santa Fe, NM, an area now known as an artistic and tourist mecca, was the first foreign capital conquered by the U.S. It had a profound impact on the people there.

The war is the backdrop for the Sandoval sisters' individual coming-of-age stories in which they cope with racism, sexism, political intrigue and the power of superstition. The Sandovals are isolated because of their wealth and education. The eldest sister, Oratoria, was a Mexican peasant (most likely of mixed ancestry) adopted into the family. The other two sisters can trace their heritage back to Spain. 

Alma runs off with a Texan and experiences racism while living with his family. She is also gifted/afflicted with the “Sandoval memories.” The youngest sister, Pilar, insists on wearing men’s clothes and working with horses. All of these family attributes set them apart from the people (la gente) in their community and make them targets when the war wreaks havoc and loss.

Over 20 of my short stories have been published. Some stories don’t have identifiable Latino characters. Against the Rules, which tells the fictionalized story of how I met my husband, does not. Personal Power does. What both stories have in common are strong voices and characters who have defied the odds or are about to defy them. Not all of my stories have erotica in them, but when they do there might be a bit of sexual fluidity, as with Pilar in The Sandoval Sisters.

Q: What are you working on?

The sequel to The Sandoval Sisters follows the next generation of Sandovals. The O’Reilly siblings, Alexandra and Phil, are orphaned and found wandering on the Santa Fe Trail. The Sandoval sisters adopt them (this part is family legend; my maternal grandmother was a Sandoval.)

Alexandra: “Their blood was not our blood, but we became Sandovals . . . they were set apart, and so were Phil and I. We played with the other children and eventually flirted with them, but we were not the same. Our Anglo last name disappeared and we became the Sandoval children on every legal document of that time, but we were not la gente. We were the children of the Sandoval witches. The community would not forget the old blood.”

Want more diversity? I’m editing a vampire novel that I sold once, but the small press went belly-up before I could deposit the check. Title:  Blood Mother.

Q: How does your work differ from others of its genre?

Short answer: there are no historical novels dealing with the Mexican American War from a female perspective (of which I am aware.) This is not a good thing. My agent got favorable responses from editors at several big publishing houses. They actually read the book and took the time to dictate letters saying they enjoyed it. The catch? Marketing. Historical fiction readers like French and English stories about royalty or the mistresses of royalty. Last on the list are American historical books. The Civil War and the American Revolution are first in line. There are exceptions, of course, but Mexicans? Puhleese . . .

Q: How does your writing process work?

When I’m actively writing a new piece, the story plays out in the back of my mind like a movie-while I’m driving, on hold, in my sleep. I see it. My job is to put it into words so that my reader can see it, too. If I get stuck, it’s not because I don’t know where to take the action, it’s in finding the best way to describe it. When this happens I usually change perspective by working out, gardening, walking the dog or switching to a short story. 

The human brain is a marvelous machine. It knows what you want it to do but for some reason the words may come out of left field. I’ll be talking to my sons or husband or at lunch with friends and in the next moment I’m scribbling on the back of an envelope or a credit card receipt.

My thanks again to Claudia Long for tagging me for this exercise. She is the author of Josefina’s Sin (Atria/Simon & Schuster 2011) and the forthcoming The Duel for Consuelo.

I’ve tagged Mona AlvaradoFrazier to continue the diversity series. She was an Amazon Breakthrough quarterfinalist for her Young Adult novel: Strong Women Grow Here

Buick Sundays

 Sundays were always special because mom didn't work on that day.  She was tired from six straight 10-hour nights of waiting on tables.  No one could blame her if she didn't feel like cooking, cleaning or driving.  She'd let me drive the old Buick my Grandpa had given us, and by old I mean made of steel and without power steering.  Driving to Louie's Drive-In to pick up tamales and comic books was my job.  I was twelve and very responsible, but in my mother's mind I think that meant I was thirty-two.

It was fall in Santa Fe, a frosty nip in the air, but no snow on the ground.  My brother was only five and stayed with Mom and was totally not my responsibility for that one day. Everyone stayed inside, but my hangout on Sunday was the Buick I'd managed to park safely in our narrow driveway (there was a telephone pole planted right in the middle of the entrance).  I made the car cozy with pillows and a comforter.  It took on a greenhouse effect with all that New Mexican sunshine filtered and magnified through the windows.  I left them cracked, and the scent of pine and aspen wafting down from the Sangre de Cristos was a welcome counterbalance in my little hothouse.

Stuffed with spicy tamales, I'd snuggle down and read Superman, The Incredible Hulk, The Fantastic Four, Wonder Woman, Tales From Beyond, and something called Classics, which was a retelling of stories like Romeo & Juliet in graphic form. When I'd finish my series, I'd take them inside and exchange with Mom who'd been reading Batman, or Silver Surfer. We were getting along in those days.

That night Mom might cook a one-dish meal like macaroni made with Velveeta Cheese. The nights were cold, but we were warm and full.  Mom sometimes sang and danced when she cooked.  She teased and complimented me.   We laughed and I remember distinct happiness.  On Sunday nights, I went off to bed and read some more, only books this time, and the house was quiet.   I was fed on multiple levels.

Mom began to come home late.  When you get off at 3 a.m. late is arriving home at dawn.  I was worried, upset, angry . . . and curious.  I began to wake up in the middle of the night and wait for her.  She was full of excuses:  she'd gone out with the girls for breakfast; there was an after work party; her car broke down; her girlfriend's car broke down.  I was furious and jealous and possessive, and suspected sex was happening, but only in an amorphous, nonverbal way that made me afraid of losing my mother.

I was afraid of a lot of stuff in those days.  I was almost thirteen and hadn't yet started my period.  Every one of my girlfriends had breasts and had been menstruating practically since birth.  They were short and curvy and cute, and I was not.  Mom and I began to fight everyday, and I missed a lot of school because I overslept.  

"Aren't you going to school?"  I wanted her to make me go, but Mom couldn't even make herself come home after work.  On some days, she didn’t make it home at all.  The Sunday I gouged out a hunk of my thigh in a bicycle accident I needed stitches, but didn’t tell Mom about it when she finally came home.  She didn’t notice anything until years later when she asked about the huge scar on my thigh. 

I passed thirteen and we fought and I challenged her and we fought some more.  I was angry all the time and mean to my little brother.  On Sundays Mom was exhausted and withdrawn.  She cooked, but there was no laughter.  I stopped reading comics in the Buick, but read Dostoyevsky by the light of a little portable electric heater bedside until Mom’s car entered the driveway.  I’d quickly shut my book and pretend to be asleep.  We didn’t talk until I decided to go live with my Dad in Texas, and then I slept with her and my brother every night until the day arrived for me to leave.  It was my last belonging.

For the year that I was gone, we remained close.  Her letters were long and full of love and trivia.  When she called long distance, she’d ask if I wanted to talk to my dog and cat.  Long distance was expensive in those days and the gesture meant a lot to me.  She was home, she was family, and my dad and his new wife were not.

I returned to New Mexico carrying the secret Mom had shared with me in her last telephone call: I now had a baby sister.  Dad squeezed his Caddy between the telephone pole and the wall and made it down our narrow drive.  Before he’d turned off the motor, I’d jumped out and entered my mother’s waiting arms.  She looked tired and ill.  She’d had to stop waitressing as her pregnancy advanced, and had taken a babysitting job for a family that lived in a trailer park on the outskirts of Santa Fe.  There was a real outdoor swimming pool there, and my brother and I swam everyday under our mother’s watchful eye. 

My dad wept when he found out about my sister.  He begged me to return to Texas with him and warned me about the bad boys who would swarm all over me when they found out about Mom.  He frightened me, but not enough to endure my stepmother again.  Winter and high school and bad boys were months away.  Mom was resting and getting well and eventually she’d return to night work.  In the meantime, those days at the trailer park pool were like a summer full of Buick Sundays. 

Conquest: Excerpt from The Sandoval Sisters' Secret of Old Blood

“I have a present for you, Pilar.” Geraldo reached behind the chair for a large box. “For the most unique woman in all of Sandoval and Quintana history.”

            Inside were gloves of soft leather. Underneath those were canvas pants with a blue stripe traveling down the leg and a multi-hued sash to tie around my waist. On the bottom lay a finely tooled leather holster with a Colt 5-shooter inside it.

            “Learn how to use it.” He reached inside his boot and removed a tiny pistol. “And this. It only fires one shot, but one shot may be all you need.”

            I ran my finger along its silver inlays and mother-of-pearl grips and traced the engraving of a centaur on its side. “It’s beautiful. Centaurs were shape shifters. Wizards. Born of the mare-headed Demeter, they castrated her priests. They wore female dress—”

            “Ah, yes,” Geraldo said. “Perfect for my own little Sandoval shape shifter.”

***

            Spring came late to Santa Fé in 1846, but the first traders traveled across the trail with news that war between the States and Mexico had begun. “Be prepared for anything and everything,” Geraldo said.

            In the summer, we got word General Kearny and his Army of the West were coming to claim New Mexico. Americans had been visible on the streets of Santa Fé for some time, usually as the result of their trading ventures. Many New Mexicans, including Governor Armijo, had become involved in the trade. Both my father and Geraldo rode the trail often.

            A few men traveled with their wives, usually Indian or Mexican women, but I’d never seen an Anglo woman cross the trail. The plaza was packed with men—American, New Mexican, Spanish, and a few French. For the most part, I passed as one of them.           

            The Missouri traders were all for the Americans taking over. They wanted it done peacefully so as not to disturb business along the trail. They also wanted to get rid of Armijo and the high levy he put on each wagonload of goods. Many, including Geraldo, suspected the receipts of the tax went into Armijo’s pockets. He had made himself unpopular with the locals by taking land from the public domain and giving it to his friends, many of whom were Americans involved in the Santa Fé trade.

            I stood beside Geraldo in the plaza when General Kearny and his army of more than sixteen hundred men entered Santa Fé in August 1846. Hundreds of supply wagons, more than I thought possible, followed the army–1500 oxen, 3600 mules, and 450 horses pulled them. A caravan of eighty merchant wagons traveled with them, ready to set up shop when the city changed hands.

            “It’s an entire country!” I said. A few men nodded their agreement.

            “An invasion,” Geraldo said. “A military occupation. They’re placing a cannon on the hill overlooking the city.”

            Acting governor Juan Bautista Vigil y Alarid surrendered the city. Not a shot was fired. When the Mexican tricolor was lowered, women sobbed and soldiers cheered.

            The United States had conquered its first foreign capital.

***

           General Kearny proclaims  New Mexico  now part of the U.S.

      "Conquest of New Mexico" 1882, artist unknown

            

            “Some of your priests have told you that we would ill-treat your women and brand them on the cheek, as you do your mules on the hip. It is all false,” General Kearny said to the crowd of New Mexicans and foreigners filling the plaza.

            “Hear, hear,” the Americans cheered.

            “He cuts a striking figure under the star-spangled banner,” said a female voice behind me. I turned and saw an American woman, about my own age. She spoke to another woman, her servant by the style of her dress. “Our countrymen will remember this day forever.”

            “Mine, too,” I said. She searched for who had spoken among the assembled men surrounding me. An officer standing next to her eyed my holster and stepped between us.

            “Just a boy, ma’am,” he said to her.        

             Over the next few days, Kearny worked alongside lawyers he’d brought with him to draft a set of laws to govern the American territory of New Mexico. “The code is workable,” Geraldo said later. He rubbed his jaw, speaking as much to himself as to me. “But the lawyers are out for themselves.”

         My business and political lessons never seemed to end. Geraldo rushed to fill me with a lifetime of what he had learned. “Hire several lawyers, pay them well, and have them check each other’s work. Are you listening Pilar?” Satisfied he had my attention, he continued, “Honesty is hard-won in rough country. In the short run, the clever and dishonest will run the territory of New Mexico. Make sure both sides work for you.” 

Please join me at the Somos Salon in Taos on Saturday, September 28 or Bookworks, Albuquerque on September 29.

HOMEWARD BOUND: NEW MEXICO

PLAYING THE SCENE READ GAME: THE SANDOVAL SISTERS' SECRET OF OLD BLOOD

If you're in Taos or Albuquerque please come by and say hello.  Please pass this info on to your friends in the area.

TAOS, Saturday, September 28, 2013, 5:00 p.m.

Location: SOMOS Salon at 233-D

Paseo del Pueblo Sur

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ALBUQUERQUE, Sunday, 09/29/2013 3:00 pm

Location: BOOKWORKS

4022 Rio Grande Blvd NW

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The Sandoval Sisters' Secret of Old Blood won First Place at the the 15^th annual International Latino Book Awards, 2013 in two categories: Best Historical Fiction and Best First Book.

I started public school in Santa Fe in the fourth grade after attending parochial schools in Texas. Mom had returned to her Gallegos roots proud of her new Anglo last name: O'Briant. It was a rough transition for me, not made any easier by my thick Texan accent cemented forever with that surname. Mom helped me dress for my first day in a cute dress, petticoat and matching patent leather shoes and purse. A ragtaggle group of kids lined up against the adobe-style wall waiting for the bell. The girls' dresses hung limp and lackluster over their ashy brown legs. One blonde boy pulled a booger from his nose and wiped it on the wall. No one laughed or teased, and everyone seemed tired. My clean hair bounced in Shirley Temple coils around my head. "Hi y'all!" They stared at me without expression and with no shared words picked up the gravel that constituted our playground and flung it at me.

This is the mortar of my making, the porous glue that stuck the last bit of iconoclast onto my isolated self. Did anyone like me?

Only the boys.