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Excerpt from Motorcycle Ride on the Sea of Tranquility

Part One

El Arbol Se Conoce Por Su Fruto The Tree Is Known By Its Fruit –Popular Spanish Saying

When my brother Chuy returned from Vietnam in April of 1969, our sweet peas were in full bloom. Entwined in the fence enclosing our yard, sinewy tendrils and translucent flowers reached up to the heavens, while unruly ones poked out from the worn, picket fence, which had grown lopsided from the weight of bountiful sweet pea vines every spring. It was said not only by our neighbors and those on Citrus Street, but even by people across the railroad tracks on Harris Avenue that you could always tell when spring had arrived in San Diego by checking the Sahagún yard over on Conifer Street. The sweet peas surrounded the whole of our yard, as if our home were in a pastoral state of siege, and the flowers’ scent was intoxicating. My best friend Lydia wondered if a person could get high on the smell. Not exactly, I told her. It was a special Sahagún aphrodisiac, its aroma meant to beckon innocent but enormously handsome young men from all over the city to enter this garden of delights. She wanted to know if I was talking about all enormously handsome men, or just a certain Francisco Valdivia of Southwest Junior High.

"Don’t you see, pendeja," I told her. "The Sahagún Estate sweet peas herald the beginning of spring, of life, of renewal and rebirth, and so it is only fitting that the enormously handsome young men of the city would want to delve into this garden of youth and innocent splendor."

"Please, Doña Shakespeariana," Lydia said. "Spare me your shit load of eloquence and symbolism."

She was helping me wrap sets of plastic forks and knives in a napkin, tying them with orange cellophane ribbon. "Don’t tie it so tight," I told her, "otherwise people can’t get it off."

"So then what do you do," Lydia asked. "Hide behind the bushes waiting to pounce on these poor, innocent guys?" "Oh, Lydia, of course not," I said. "How uncouth! You see, the scent enters their skin, into every sexy little pore; it gets into their blood vessels, rushing up to their heart. The moment they set eyes on me, it is love–amor, amor–of the grandest kind."

"For them or for you?" Lydia asked.

"You know, Lydia," I said, "if you’re not going to allow me my little fantasy, if you can’t cooperate just this once–you know, be romantic and fanciful for once in your life–then just forget it, OK?"

"Is this still too tight?" she asked, showing me a tied napkin and good-naturedly ignoring my last comment. Lydia was my best friend, no doubt about it.

"Yeah, that’s better," I said. I had the best part of the task: to curl the ends of the ribbon with the sharp side of the scissors, my ribbon ends obediently twirling and transforming themselves into lively, springy curlicues.

I wondered for a moment whether Chuy would notice these tied ribbons and remember that this was my favorite job for family parties. But he would, I reminded myself, for he was my favorite brother, and I, Yolanda Sahagún, the seventh of nine children by Dolores and Lorenzo Sahagún, was surely his favorite sister.

Each of us had our chores to perform, things to prepare for Chuy’s Welcome Home party. Further discussion of the garden, which my parents had diligently grown and nurtured since they arrived from Mexico over twenty years before, would have to wait.

Lydia and I were in the backyard patio organizing the plastic utensils, paper plates, cups, and napkins–while my brother Tony organized the albums and 45s. He was sitting on the floor where he’d set up the stereo hi-fi, the turntable, and speakers. Dozens of albums were scattered around him. Lots of Motown. Already he had Ray Charles singing a lively "Hit the Road, Jack," warming us up for the festivities that lay ahead.

"Oye," Papá called out from the kitchen screen door, "did you find the Javier Solis albums and the Variedad Mariachi?" As always when there was going to be a big family feast, he appointed himself the official food sampler and was now eating a warmed tortilla with beans and rice. "Last time you played too much of that crazy music of yours," he warned. "A little consideration this time for us viejitos, eh?"

Papá didn’t seem like a viejito to me. His light blue eyes were too full of fun and fire, too youthful and feisty. Even though he was snacking all the time, Papá was thin and sprightly. He would never grow old. He was Papá, our resident Jarabe Tapatío dancer.

"Hey, do you think your father will make you dance with him this time?" Lydia asked, giggling.

"God, spare me please!" I said. "Don’t even mention it–me hechas la sal–are you trying to put a hex on me?"

"Man, if any one of your brothers asked me to dance the Jarabe Tapatío tonight," Lydia said in a low voice just in case my brother Tony could hear her over Ray Charles, "I would in a flash."

"Pobrecita," I said, "don’t hold your breath." Poor Lydia and her perpetual crush on my four brothers.

Chuy had come back to the States through the San Francisco airport, spent a night with our Uncle Teodoro, who lived in the Bay area, and was flying down to San Diego today, the day of his homecoming.

I was straightening the living room earlier this afternoon when we got the call from Tío Teodoro.

"But he’s all in one piece, isn’t he?" Mamá said, speaking into the receiver.

I was all ears, trying to figure out what Tío was saying at the other end of the line. Quickly swiping the dust off with a rag, I set the vase of sweet peas strategically on top of the scar-like crack on the glass coffee table. There, now nobody would notice it. Chuy was probably on his way down now, flying in from Frisco. God, I couldn’t wait!

"But of course he’s tired, Teodoro," Mamá was saying. "It’s a long flight. But he’s safe now, bendito sea Dios," and she hung up. She looked distracted, must have been thinking of PSA flight schedules and the quickest way to the San Diego airport to pick up Chuy.

Yes, our Chuy would be home, all in one piece, thanks be to God.

Tito and El Chango arrived at our house early. They had their own stack of favorite albums to contribute to the party.

"Have you talked to him yet?" El Chango asked Tony. El Chango was Chuy’s best friend, but he hadn’t been drafted into the army because of his polio-afflicted leg. His limp earned him the nickname "El Chango" because he walked like a monkey.

"No," Tony said. "He didn’t call when he got to San Francisco. But he’s on his way home now. Plane gets in at six thirty."

"What time are people getting here?"

"Around eight or nine."

"Shit, man," El Chango said. "What if he’s not in the mood for all this?" El Chango adored Chuy, thought he was the funniest guy in the world, and he always seemed to want to protect Chuy, loved being his straight man when they were up to some new prank, got a kick out of being his partner in crime in their high school mischief–travesuras galore. Chuy and his faithful buddy, El Chango, had earned themselves the much-esteemed reputation of being witty devils. Tony alternated music, playing some old songs–"Johnny Angel," "It’s My Party"–and new songs like "Crimson and Clover" and "Time of the Season."

"Maybe he’ll need some rest before the party," El Chango said, still worried about Chuy.

"Yeah, we thought the same, but our uncle up in Frisco told us that when Chuy got there he slept the whole day and woke up fifteen hours later and said he was ready to go home."

He would be ready to come home, yes he would, to us, his eight brothers and sisters who had watched the six o’clock news every night with dreadful anticipation, read the San Diego Union, two or three of us at a time awkwardly holding the oversized pages–scanning the national news, local news, international news–wondering if he was in this bombing, or that offensive, knowing that somewhere out there in another world, on that flattened-out map, this very minute our Chuy could be bombed to shreds, exploding bits and pieces of his person scattered on a terrain and in a world we knew nothing about.

April, 1969–our Chuy would soon be home now, all in one piece, bendito sea Dios.

Red, white, and blue streamers hung across the length of the garage. Someone had rescued a scorched American flag from a garbage bin at the San Diego State Campus; cousins in Tijuana had brought us a Mexican flag–both were hanging on the garage wall. The framed picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe was temporarily removed from her usual spot in the living room and now hung between the two flags. Below these, a long table was set for the buffet. The white frosted sheet cake was decorated with two miniature toothpick flags–Mexican and American–and red and blue writing said "Welcome Home, CHUY!"

Mamá stood at the kitchen door. She, along with my older sisters, Carolina and Ana María, had been busy in the kitchen preparing the yummy feast for days, anticipating this moment. Now she looked out at all of us–Lydia and me at the table arranging the tableware, Tony, El Chango, and Tito near us, sorting the albums.

"Buenas tardes, Señora," Tito and El Chango called out to her. Mamá could barely hear their greeting because the music was on full blast. She smiled and waved to them, shaking her head in exaggeration, as if to say they were crazy to listen to that loud racket. Her short curly brown hair crowned her face, her green eyes took in the backyard. It seemed as if she were assessing the fruits of her labor: the beds of begonias, Boston ferns, the birds of paradise. I watched Mamá’s eyes caress the healthy guayaba tree, and then the plum tree–still too thin and young to produce. The quince tree. She was sure this fall the membrillos would be as big and tart as they had been two years ago. Maybe now that the family would all be together again the tree would fare better, she must have been thinking as she stepped back into the shadows of the kitchen.

Our Chuy was coming home, gracias a Dios.

Then my oldest brothers, Armando and Octavio, arrived from Tijuana with wooden cases of bottled sodas, tequila and lemons. Although you could buy lemons here in the supermarkets or pluck them from the lemon trees, Papá insisted that the little green Mexican limones tasted better, so my brothers had been sure to make a quick stop at Mercado Hidalgo.

Now they plunked down the cases of sodas and beers, passing out bottles to the few more buddies who had arrived–buddies who always got to our parties early for a head start on the drinking (or maybe for a peek at one of the lovely, ripe Sahagún sisters–Carolina, Ana María or me–I wishfully thought).

"When the moon is in the seventh house, and Jupiter aligns with Mars," the Fifth Dimension sang, the words both haunting and celebratory. Lydia and I, along with my pesky younger sisters, were blowing up the balloons.

"C’mon, mi’ja," my oldest brother Armando said as he led the baby of the family into the middle of the patio and twirled her around to the rhythms of the Fifth Dimension, let her put her tiny feet on his as he danced a kind of Frankenstein step to the beat. Luz giggled and let herself be danced to the middle of the patio where everyone could see her, proud to be dancing with her oldest brother, relieved that no one was telling her to "scramboola" as we sometimes did when she was being a seven-year-old pest. Now Octavio had Monica, second to the last Sahagún, twirling her this way and that to the shouts of "Let the sunshine in!" The music and squeals of delight brought Mamá, Papá, Carolina, and Ana María to the kitchen door, laughing at the mismatched dancing couples.

This is what we were doing, then: singing at the top of our lungs, pretending we were the Fifth Dimension celebrating the Age of Aquarius, all of us snapping our fingers to the beat, clapping and singing "Let the sunshine–Let the sunshine in . . ." when suddenly we stopped in mid sentence, in mid harmony, realizing–all of us at the same time–that Chuy was standing before us, quietly staring. His face was stern and disapproving, as if he were a Lieutenant Commander and had just caught his men in outrageous and inappropriate activities. Unruly and disobedient soldiers, all of us. He stood straight, shoulders back, at attention. Impeccable posture. Impossible. Dressed in Army regulation greens, Jesús Manuel Sahagún stared at us as if he were a Martian accidentally alighted on a planet not his own, perhaps not of his liking.

Our Chuy had come home, thanks be to God.

© 2002 by Patricia Santana. All rights reserved.

--From Motorcycle Ride on the Sea of Tranquility, by Patricia Santana. © April 2002, University of New Mexico Press used by permission.

Copyright © 2002 by Patricia Santana. All rights reserved.

--From Motorcycle Ride on the Sea of Tranquility, by Patricia Santana. © April 2002 , University of New Mexico Press used by permission.

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