Hard Red Spring (42 page)

“They want to know if they're allowed to talk,” she said. “They're confused about the rules.”

“The rules?”

“Our languages are not allowed. We're only allowed to speak Spanish to each other in the camp.”

“But none of you know Spanish. You've only been taking lessons . . .” At that moment, the silence of the entire camp, not only her class, suddenly made sense to Lenore. “Whose rule is that?”

“The General's rule, the soldiers' rule. They told us when we arrived that if we speak our languages to each other, we no longer have amnesty.”

“And what happens then?”

“We're punished for being guerrillas.”

Lenore eyed the emptied classroom, with its discarded scissors, the half-finished clothing. This was how she saw her church now, as a classroom. When the Civil Patrol folded up the tables every day for the evening sermon, she felt a great disruption. Church time borrowed from her sewing class, instead of the other way around.

She tried to evaluate the wisdom of defying the General, but she was not the decision maker, she reminded herself. Lenore stepped out of the church, into the square, where Dan led the Civil Patrol in an exercise that mirrored his own morning drill. Slicing an X in the air, then slicing off the top.

“
¡Uno, dos, tres!
” he yelled, keeping time. “
¡Uno, dos, tres!
”

Lenore returned to the church.

“Do the women want to speak? They don't seem like they want to anyway.”

“Some do.” Emelda shrugged. “But they're afraid. And they're confused about me. They think maybe now the rule has changed. They asked me to ask you.”

“Well, my sewing class has no rules like that, Emelda.” Lenore's anger had warmed her now, making her indifferent to any threat from the General or the soldiers, to Dan slicing and stabbing at the air. “They're free to say whatever they want in my class. We're not running a concentration camp here.”

That evening, almost three months into the mission, Lenore wrote her first letter home to Kentucky. Only one sentence:
Dan, do you know about the ban on Indians speaking their own languages?

~~~~~

Once the women understood that they could speak in Lenore's presence, the sewing class changed. After three days, all the men had new pants, so the students began sewing clothes for the children. Progress was faster and more volunteers opted out of working the wheat fields to contribute. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, despite what Emelda translated to Lenore.

“Carlotta doesn't like the fabric. She says it's too weak and thin,” she'd say. Or, “Delmi doesn't want to make any more children's clothes. They killed all six of her children, you know?” Emelda liked to translate their complaints, but Lenore focused on smaller things. Every smile Emelda allowed herself was a victory—every compliment she translated, too: “Cruzita wants to make you a blouse. What is your favorite color?”

Communication improved, though Lenore wondered if she had compromised the mission for this victory. All the women seemed to understand that they could not speak around the soldiers, or the Civil Patrol. Or Dan. What had Emelda told them? The class, despite its success, was becoming a conspiracy of women, Lenore included.

Emelda remained the main translator in Quiché and Achí, while Cruzita communicated through her for the women who spoke Ixil. From there, other women who understood other languages spidered off into their own translation networks. With this arrangement, Emelda and Cruzita grew visibly closer. At first they did not seem to know each other well, having lived in distant villages. But Lenore noticed that they now unofficially shared a shed. They sat for hours in the dark there, talking, braiding each other's hair. This union disturbed Lenore. Her most obedient convert and her most difficult. She watched their interactions closely, suspecting that Emelda would try to corrupt her granddaughter, but there was no way to know because, though all the women talked more now, less and less made it to Lenore through translation.

Emelda and Cruzita plunged so deep in conversation sometimes that they forgot to sew or even pretend to sew. One day, as they whispered with their heads touching, Lenore demanded to know what it was all about.

“I'm telling her how my grandmother died,” Emelda said, absently taking up her stitching again. Cruzita did the same. “What she told me right before she died.”

“The grandmother that taught you English?”

“Yes.” Stitch, stitch.

“The one you wrote your letter to?”

“Yes. Ixna.” Stitch, stitch, knot.

“How do you write a letter to a dead person, Emelda? Were you lying to me about your letter?”

The Civil Patrol circled the church in such perfect unison, sounding like one heavy body marching. “
¡Uno, dos, tres!
” Dan spurred them on. “Praise the Lord!”

Emelda made a face, breaking the thread with her teeth. “I did not lie. It was a letter for my grandmother. For? No, about her. Not to her. You are too hard on me with these English words, it's hard to get them right, going back and forth all the time.”

Lenore sat on the other side of Cruzita, who was now sewing diligently. She imagined a tug-of-war over the girl. Emelda pulling one arm, and her the other. She didn't know if she believed this latest explanation of Emelda's letter, but it didn't matter, because Lenore still had the letter, had it in her pocket at that moment. She'd decided to mail it the night before, but now, maybe not.

“How did she die, Emelda?”

“It was terrible. So terrible that sometimes I think it was punishment, for what people said she did.” Stitch, stitch. The thread was too dark for the material, Lenore noticed, making the seam ugly and obvious.

“What did they say she did?”

“They said she was a murderer.”

Morbid stories, possibly made-up stories, circulated through her class. Lenore felt herself losing control of the situation. “Was she?”

“I don't think so, but I stopped the trial. Thirty years ago, there was a trial about my land and United Fruit argued that I did not deserve my land because Grandmother killed for it.”

“So they tried to put her in jail?”

“No, this is after she died. But then because I dropped my claim, everyone thought she was guilty and I didn't want it proven. But that wasn't why!”

“Emelda, why are you so upset about this now?” She put a hand out to still the shaking needle.

“I should have rejected their offer, fought their lies in court. But I didn't and that made the ancestors angry. I ignored the one thing my grandmother told me before she died. And because of the one mistake, I had to do many things after that, which made the ancestors angry, too. So many things, just to save myself.”

“What did your grandmother tell you?”

“To never want anything a foreigner has. To never take anything they give. Once I do, it will be the last choice I make.”

“But you took my pen and paper, didn't you?”

“I had no choice. The lesson's not for me now. I took their money. That was the last choice I made, a long time ago. All I can do is hope Cruzita will not do the same.”

Neither of them looked at Cruzita, but at the jumper in her busy hands. The seams were coming together smoothly. The pieces matched, making the shape of a child.

~~~~~

For that week, Lenore took the padlock from their apartment and secured it on the church door, closing it for the first time. Their light suffered, but in this way they could not be surprised by Dan and his Civil Patrol, who busied themselves by searching sheds and investigating the situation of the smuggled stones. Lenore had mentioned this in a roundabout way to Emelda, the night before the first search.

Nothing yet had come of Ama's transgressions. Dan and the Civil Patrol seemed to be awaiting the General's return from terrain training to carry out her punishment, whatever it would be. Another thing that Lenore did her best not to think about. To warn her seemed itself a kind of punishment. All she could do was prevent the situation from happening again. The idea of these Indians having sex was nearly unimaginable to Lenore. But of course, they did. Whatever went on in those sheds at night began to haunt her, and she especially began to worry for Cruzita. The girl was fifteen, old enough for dates. And Lenore had seen too many beautiful girls ruined by the reluctance of adults to address the issue. Emelda herself admitted to being an unwed mother. Unfortunately, there was no way to have this talk without Emelda's help.

“Sex . . .” Lenore began, then immediately stopped for the look on Emelda's face. All around them, the women repaired pants that had come back ripped from the road crew.

“This is what you want to talk to her about?”

“Yes. Just translate, Emelda. Tell her that a man's body and a woman's body were made to fit together. But not to fit with just anyone. She must save herself for her husband. If she doesn't, she'll regret it forever.”

Emelda mumbled a translation. A seemingly correct translation, for Cruzita blushed deeply. Emelda held a hand up. “I think this is a lot for Cruzita.”

“But does she understand?”

“Oh yes, she understands very well. She thanks you for letting her know.”

“Ask her if she understands. You didn't ask her!”

Emelda and Cruzita conversed for a moment, then Cruzita smiled sweetly and nodded at Lenore. With this, Lenore began contemplating her own questions, the ones she did her best to ignore all week. She had no books, no one to talk to, no way to understand how she felt.

“Emelda, what's it like, being pregnant? Did you know right away?”

“Oh no!” She laughed. “I had no idea. Because he told me it couldn't happen between a Hispanic and an Indian. I believed everything Tomás said. I didn't know until I came home and my mother slapped me.”

“Were you very hungry all the time?”

“Yes. That's how she knew. I ate too much food and left none for her.”

“Were you tired? Did you feel like you were sleepwalking all the time?”

Instead of answering, Emelda put down her sewing and regarded Lenore closely. In the back of the room, a group of women tried to stifle their laughter.

“Sometimes,” Lenore said, changing the subject, “I feel like you aren't telling me everything the women are saying.”

“I'm telling you everything,” Emelda insisted. “You just don't hear it.”

“Okay, then maybe you aren't telling them everything I'm saying. Something's missing. The main part of your job is to make them understand me.”

“You think that's the problem with the village? That
they
don't understand
you?
”

“Yes, Emelda. I think they would be more open to the program if they understood where I'm coming from. If you—”

Her translator cut her off. “We all know where you came from, Lenore. You came from the sky, from the planes and helicopters. Just like the soldiers, like the General.”

“I did not come here as a soldier, I didn't come here because I was paid to or because I was ordered to. I came here out of love. I want to share God's love.”

Emelda snorted.

“The hate in your heart has made you very bitter. You can't even accept love. You need to let go of this hate. It will do nothing for you, Emelda.”

She had anticipated this. “And what will Jesus do for me?”

“He can wash away your hatred and fill you with love. He died for you, Emelda. He died for me and for you. He died so we can have a new start!”

“He died for you,” Emelda repeated, her face, the map of wrinkles, darkening with blood. “And that makes you happy? You don't know what you're saying.”

“But I do!” she insisted, gesturing desperately with her arms. How to make her understand? To make her feel that love, to be full of His love, was all Emelda needed.

“No, you do not,” Emelda persisted, her face thrust forward. Not much made Emelda angry, except talk about guilt and death. But everything seemed to loop around to those topics eventually. “You've never had anyone die for you; if you did, you'd know it is not a happy thing. I've had too many people die for me already. I don't want another.”

Lenore had to be very careful. She did not want a confession right now, she did not want to have to deal with any more information, anything that would compromise the progress she was making with the class.

“Emelda, I'm not going to be able to baptize you if you keep on like this.”

“Yes, you will. If you want to keep your interpreter.”

“No, I won't.” A helicopter ripped overhead. Then another and another, making Lenore shout to be heard. “You say I don't understand, but you don't understand what you're asking of me! It's blasphemous. It's a grave sin. Please—”

Emelda laid a hand on her arm. “Don't be upset. There's no reason, you see, because I was already saved a long time ago. And baptized. So this will mean nothing.”

“What? When? Who baptized you?”

“A nice missionary, like you, when I was fourteen. Her name was Naomi. She taught me how to pray.”

“But you didn't like it? Did you not get what you prayed for, is that it?”

“Oh no. I got everything I prayed for. Every horrible thing.”

~~~~~

Dan ignored his dinner to write a note with fierce concentration, either to the General, to the church, or possibly to her. His forehead creased in bewilderment and Lenore knew that note was going to Kentucky—one of his doubts about her mailed back home for them to read and laugh over later.

He had been meeting with the General on a daily basis since the soldiers had returned, but had not invited her along. She didn't complain at first because she cherished her time with the women, despite Mincho's return.
While Dan and the General discussed roads for hours, however, the village suffered. Nothing on their list improved—water treatment, medicine, food—though Dan seemed renewed by the progress of the road project. Topographical maps added a new element to the clutter of their room. They were huge maps, scrawled with calculations, and impossible to refold.