the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 486, April 12,
2004
Primus St. John (1939-
)
“American
society has a strangely polarized attitude toward its heroes. On the one hand
people love to discover the idol has clay feet... On the other hand, thousands
and thousands of people seem to have a need to increase their own sense of
strength by believing in someone who presents himself as wider or more powerful
than themselves. And they are reluctant to take the hero off his pedestal, even
when they discover that he was not what he seemed.”
—Professor
Harold Lief in Official and Confidential: The Secret Life of J. Edgar Hoover by Anthony Summers
“What do you mean you want to die?” I asked Juan Emilio as I
turned onto Summit Street and drove up between rows of Mexican restaurants,
some not larger than sandwich stands.
“I mean, do you think of really dying or just getting out of some
kind of a hard time you’re having?” I said.
“When I was young,” he said. “I came up from Chihuahua every year
as a Bracero. I sent money to my mother and father and paid for things that we
couldn’t have if I didn’t go north.
“One winter, a boy from my village asked me when I was leavin’ to
the lettuce fields again. I said what was it to him. ‘I’s sleepin’ with your
sister when you was gone,’ he said.”
I pulled the car up in front of our houses and parked on the curb
on his side of the street. I came around to help him up on the curb and through
the gate in the chain link.
He stopped on the walk just before the house. “It was the first time I wanted to kill somebody,” he said, his dark eyes blinking in the sun. I stood with his groceries hanging on one hand.
“All that winter, I thought about hittin’ him with a hoe or a’ ax.” He looked away from me and over his yard. “I dreamed about putting my thumbs to his throat.” He turned and walked over to the front porch. I opened the screen door for him.
“So you didn’t kill him?” I said.
He slipped his key into the front door and we walked through into
the little front room that doubled as a dining room. He set his groceries on
the dining room table and pulled the curtains open, spilling a little light
into the room.
“I wanted to,” he said, settling into one of the chairs behind the
table. I sat down next to him. “I went to the states and never went back to
Mexico, and I never saw him or my sister again.
“When I decided not to go back, that was the first time I thought
I wanted to die. After that, I thought about it all the time, and a couple of
times even tried. My wife’s the one that saved me all these years.”
“But you haven’t tried to kill yourself since she’s died.”
“Not yet.”
“Juan Emilio, I never knew any of this.”
“It’s not something you tell around the neighborhood.”
It was strange, I thought. Ever since I had moved in across the
street from the old man, I had only ever known Juan Emilio to have good things
to say about people. His yard was a riot of flowers and vegetables, most of
which he gave to neighbors. In summer, he had mown other people’s grass when
they were sick or too old. He went early to Santa Lucia’s every Sunday and
stayed late, helping to straighten up the pews and shelve hymnals. He worked
twice a month in the food pantry in the church basement.
I leaned forward on the table. “Why do you want to die now?” I
asked.
“I’m tired, and it is time.”
“But things can’t be that bad. There must be reasons to live.”
“There’re many reasons to live.” The old man shrugged and smiled, his
eyes turning into dark slits. “But there’re more reasons for me to die. I’m
getting too old to take care of myself, and I’m getting expensive. The house is
still worth somethin’ now.” He looked around the dark little house, its walls
filled with mementos, black and white photos in frames, holy cards and pictures
of the Virgin. “And I have a few savings and insurances that won’t be around
long if I become a wreck.”
I thought of the contradictions. The man wanted to die. But we had
gone to the store, bought food. He had raked his yard and swept his walks over
the weekend. I couldn’t leave him without finding him help.
“Juan Emilio, you know, you’re giving up, with this desire to
die.”
“I know.”
“What about your soul?” I said.
“My life is complete, Memo. If God condemns me after the life I’ve
lived, in spite of my impure thoughts, then God has failed.”
Juan Emilio stood from his chair. “I’ll put on some tea.”
in the night
wind
sheer slaps a siding patch
against
the gutter
harpies’
wings along the roofline
and
down through shards of yesterday
ceiling
fan beats time
for
rhododendron in moonray dances
the
magnolia scratches the porchlamp
the
dog bites a bite, quakes the bed,
settles
in again, haunches flexed, ears cocked
a
prayer whirls on the fan
out
the window
falls
with magnolia petals
into
dawn
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