My sister Dodie and I were curled up\non the leather couch in front of the fire at Grampy Bates\u2019 ranch. I\u2019d brought\nthe hatbox I found in Mama\u2019s old closet that afternoon, and we were rummaging\nthrough old photographs, letters and memorabilia I hadn\u2019t seen before. On top\nof the pile there was a yellowed envelope marked \u201cTito\u201d. I emptied its contents\nonto the coffee table, and images of our little brother, Timmy, spilled out\nonto the glass surface. Dodie and I had never discussed our brother\u2019s death. It\nwas as though we had both decided that he had never really existed, and that\nlife would somehow be more bearable if we didn\u2019t look back at all that sadness\nwhich enveloped the family for years starting in July of 1979. Dodie was only thirteen\n when Timmy died and didn\u2019t remember all\nthat much anyway. But I was sixteen, and I was supposed to be in charge. I was\nthe one who should have been watching him instead of burying my nose in a\nbook. Of course, I, being the older\nsister and all, took on the responsibility of babysitting when mama wasn\u2019t\naround, and she wasn\u2019t around a lot back then. It seemed like the minute\nColonel Joe (our nick name for Daddy), got back to the ranch from some overseas\ngig in the military, she would pack her bags and disappear for a few days or\neven a few weeks down to the Double B Ranch to visit Abuelita, my grandmother\nLena. Often, she would slip across the border to teach dance in Cousin\nEnriche\u2019s studio in Monterrey. It didn\u2019t seem all that unusual. It had been a\nfamily pattern for as long as I could remember. \nWhen we were younger, she would pack us up and leave us with Abuelita.\nWe thought she was going to Mexico to dance, but I know now that it was much\nmore than that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At sixteen, I had begun to resent my\nmother for shirking her responsibilities onto me. I remember thinking \u201cDoesn\u2019t\nshe know I have a life?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hated being in charge of Dodie and\nTimmy out at the ranch. Dodie was too much of a girlie girl for me, and Timmy\nwas just a pain-in-the-ass ten-year-old kid, who suffered from boredom and\nwouldn\u2019t leave me alone. Colonel Joe would be off mending fences or seeing to\nranch business, expecting me to run the house while mama was away, and I had\nbegun to despise everything about my mother. I thought she was a selfish and\ninconsiderate bitch, and after Timmy died, I pretty much divorced myself from\nmy family and retreated even further into my books and horses. That must have\nbeen when I decided I was going to go to Harvard Law School, to get as far away\nas possible from the McCullough Ranch, my bohemian Mexican mother and her\ndancing cousins. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The territory of the heart is not\none I can easily lay claim to. I had spent a lot of years burying my feelings\nabout Timmy\u2019s accident, the trauma and the rifts it had caused in the family.\nIt was not something we as a family ever talked about. We each shrank into our\nown private cocoons, shaken by the possibility of our fragile mortality and the\nempty place at the dinner table. Dodie put her mind on boys, I on books, and\nmama and daddy on booze to dim the echo of the cavernous silence between them. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sure, I\u2019ve read those books by politician\u2019s wives and celebrities who\nhave lost a child and shared their grief, but back then I showed my mother no\ncompassion at all. By the time I was twenty, I wondered \u201cWhy doesn\u2019t she just\nget over it?\u201d baffled by the constancy of my mother\u2019s depression and the dark\nvoid that sucked me in. I simply could not breathe in my mother\u2019s house. I\ncould not bear to spend more than an hour at a time sitting with her. I could\nnot bear the cross of her grief and my own complicity and guilt. It was, after\nall, my fault that Timmy died.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He really was a great kid. Smart, athletic, and promising to grow into a\nvery handsome young man. We used to joke that he was the heart-throb of the\nfourth and fifth grade at the elementary school. The next James Dean. But he\npaid no mind to the teasing of his older sisters. He brought me bouquets of\nflowers whenever he went wandering out on the plains or along the creek. He\u2019d\nsnuggle up to me and beg me to read aloud from Treasure Island, because I \u201cdid\nthe voices so well\u201d. In fact, Timmy was\nbecoming closer to me than he was to mama. Although he\u2019d always been mama\u2019s\nfavorite, as far as I could tell, her aloofness in the last few years before\nhis death had distanced her from all of us. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Funny how you build up a story about someone. You work so hard at\nbelieving that story your whole life, there\u2019s no room for an alternative\nnarrative. It\u2019s only since mama\u2019s death,\nsix months ago, that I have opened up to understanding who she really might\nhave been. I had forgotten how close we were as children and what a good mother\nshe was; how beautiful I used to think she was, and how I would watch her dance\nin her studio for hours. I\u2019d forgotten the warm smile and sparkling eyes and\nthe way she adored us kids, especially Timmy and me. The memory I\u2019d held onto\nall these years was that of a broken-down woman who was immersed in the grief\nof her only son\u2019s death. I just didn\u2019t get it. It seemed to me that we had all\nmoved on. My father began to perk up after several months. But mama seemed to\nshrivel up and die. Then again, it\u2019s hard to comprehend the emotions around an\nincident you have worked so hard to forget.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That day was hot. I remember it because I couldn\u2019t find a cool place in\nthe house to read. My bedroom was too hot, the pool was steaming, and the other\nrooms in the house were stifling, even though they were cooler than the outside\nair. I finally opted to curl up in the\nhammock on the veranda, where I could at least rock myself and create a little\nbit of air. I remember what I was reading. It was Tolstoy\u2019s War and Peace<\/em>, and I was both precocious\nand conceited enough to believe that no one in my family could possibly\nunderstand the depths of such great literature. I had already decided that\nDodie was as dumb as a stump and should have been quarantined in special ed\nclasses, and quite frankly, I had never seen my father, \u201cColonel Joe\u201d, pick up\nanything but a newspaper. My mother\nseemed to spend more of her time writing than reading. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I was a little pissed off at my mother. No sooner had daddy gotten home\nafter three months in Central America and who the hell knows where else, then\nshe packed up her bags and announced that she was going down to visit Abuelita\nand Grampy Bates for a few days. Dodie was away at cheerleading camp, and Timmy\nhad the company of our cousin, Donnie, who was visiting from Denver, Colorado\nto keep him occupied. Daddy and I could manage just fine without her, so she\nsaid, and there were T.V. dinners in the freezer. Translation: I was in charge.\nDaddy wasn\u2019t all that useful when it came to managing the family. After being\naway for months, the bills had piled up and there were lots of details about\nranch business to attend to. He was apt to hole himself up in his den for hours\nat a time, which meant that I had to watch over Timmy and our little shit\ncousin, who was trouble on wheels for all I could see.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Cousin Donny was the only child of daddy\u2019s sister, Carlene, who married a\ndoctor from Philadelphia who had never set foot on a ranch. They lived a\nsuburban life in Denver, where Donny had anything he wanted, including his own\nphone and T.V. in his room. He brought\nan artillery of amusement with him, including skateboards, pogo sticks, and a\nBMX bike. Whenever he came out to the\nranch for a visit, as he had for the last four summers, all hell broke\nloose. The positive side was that I could\nrest assured that the boys would be entertaining themselves all day long, and\nthe only interruption I could depend upon was fixing meals.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For lunch, I cooked up some hotdogs and let them chow down on Potato Stix\nand Bugles with 7-up. Daddy said he wasn\u2019t hungry and shut himself up in his\noffice where I could hear the adding machine clicking away. By the time I got\nthe dishes cleaned up (it was the maid\u2019s day off), the boys were long gone.\nThey didn\u2019t tell me what they were up to, but Timmy was a good kid. He knew the\nlimits. They weren\u2019t allowed down in the stockyard, or in the stables without\nadult (or older sister) supervision, but other than that there wasn\u2019t too much\ntrouble they could get into. I could watch and hear activity around the pool\nfrom the veranda, and it was quiet and still. Most likely, they were riding\nbikes up and down the red dirt roads, eating each other\u2019s dust, and would\nreturn hot, sweaty, and filthy, expecting to jump in the pool.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I must have dozed off on the veranda, somewhere in chapter 27 of\nTolstoy\u2019s epic, which was flat upon my chest when I was startled awake by a\ntruck horn beeping loudly, and careening around the curve in the gravel\ndriveway, and shouts in Spanish, sounding frantic. Daddy came running out of the house. The\nscreen door slamming loudly behind him, shouting \u201cWhat the hell\u2019s going on!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was Roberto, his right-hand man who worked as a foreman in the\nstockyards.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSenior Joe \u2013 come quickly \u2013 the boy \u2013Tito \u2013he\u2019s hurt real bad. I think\nhis neck it may be broken\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJesus H. Christ!\u201d I heard daddy yell as he grabbed his hat from inside\nthe door. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I rolled off the hammock and jumped into the truck bed, as daddy jumped\nin the cab with Roberto. We sped off on two wheels to the back of the property\nwhere there was a riding ring. Roberto slammed the breaks in a cloud of dust,\nand we all jumped out. That snapshot is imbedded deep in my memory \u2013 not a\npretty picture I would choose to pull out of the family scrapbook. I am still\nreluctant to conjure up the image. But there it is that frozen moment when I\nlooked inside the ring and saw my brother Timmy lying still and lifeless with\nblood trickling from his mouth and his eyes wide open from the life having been\nsucked out of him. I couldn\u2019t move. I stood there frozen, in front of the truck.\nDonny was frozen across the ring from me, his hands knotted in fists by his\nside and his face contorted in horror, or terror \u2013 I could not tell. I could\nnot think. Everything had suddenly turned to ice in a day that started out to\nbe hotter than hell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Rusty, Timmy\u2019s young palomino, was pacing the ring with a wild look in\nhis eye, his tail flying, and ears laid back and his legs all sixes and sevens\nin the skittishness of confusion. Timmy wasn\u2019t supposed to ride Rusty without\nme or mama supervising. He was a young horse and fairly green, but keen at\nbarrel racing and circus tricks. Timmy was a dare-devil on a horse. He was\nathletic and had a solid seat. There\u2019s no way he would have fallen off Rusty\nunless he was showing off, trying out some new tricks. Even then, I couldn\u2019t\nbelieve that Timmy would have gotten hurt. He was like a cat with nine lives.\nEvery time he fell off a horse he landed on his feet with his hands on the\nreigns. I couldn\u2019t imagine what had happened in that ring that day. Whatever it\nwas must have been my fault, because I was supposed to be keeping an eye out\nfor the boys.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I never saw Daddy move that fast before. He vaulted over the fence, not\neven bothering with the gate. \u201cMaggie!\u201d he shouted at me to snap me out of my\nstupor, \u201cGet the damned horse!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I ducked under the fencing and caught Rusty on the fly by the lead rope\nwhich was dangling from his halter. It took a minute to calm him down and get\nhim down to a walk instead of a trot, and he was all lathered up. Horses are\nfunny like that. They are like errant children when something goes wrong. They\ntake it to heart, and you can read on their face the combination of remorse,\nembarrassment, and \u201cOh shit \u2013 I\u2019m in trouble now!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I noticed that Donny was still\nfrozen against the fence opposite the gate, and I shouted out to him to open it\nup so I could get Rusty cooled off and back in the stall. When I glanced back\nat the ring, daddy was holding Timmy\u2019s limp body in his arms, and for the first\ntime in my life I thought I heard my father cry as he rocked back and forth. I\nheard him moan, \u201cOh no, Oh God, please, no\u2026. Timmy\u2026\u2026don\u2019t\u2026\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I made Donny come to the stables with me, figuring he needed to get away\nfrom the scene. It still hadn\u2019t donned on me that my brother was actually dead.\nI figured he had the wind knocked out of him or something, but I didn\u2019t\ncomprehend that he was gone by the time we got there. Donny was silent for the first minute or so,\nbut then, as I handed him the curry comb to groom Rusty before bedding him\ndown, he burst into tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s all my fault! I\u2019m sorry! We were just fooling around\u2026\u2026. I \u2026.\u201d By\nthen his sobs were so deep I couldn\u2019t understand a word he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCome on, Donny,\u201d I said as I placed my hand on his shoulder, \u201cLet\u2019s\nforget the grooming and go help Timmy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But it was too late for Timmy. It was all too late. The medics did their\nbest to revive him, and they called in a helicopter to medivac him to the\nhospital in Old El Paso, but it was a hopeless gesture. They said he probably died instantly from a\nfatal blow to the head. He\u2019d gotten tangled in the long lead rope when he fell\nat high speed, and the horse inadvertently kicked him to death as he trotted\naround the ring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat in that hospital late into the night with daddy using the pay phone\nevery five minutes, trying to reach mama at Abuelita\u2019s, and Donny totally\ntraumatized and begging to go back home to Denver. Timmy was pronounced dead on\narrival. Abuelita was trying to track mama down, who had supposedly gone across\nthe border to a dance competition.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Just as I was finishing up telling Dodie what I remembered about Timmy\u2019s\ndeath, Abuelita came in with a tray of hot cocoa. The three of us cuddled up on\nthe big old couch before the fire. Dodie was crying, but I hadn\u2019t managed to\nget there yet, although I pretty much felt like crap with the resurgence of old\nfeelings of guilt. Dodie had unearthed a missing journal from 1980 which she\nwas thumbing through while I recounted the events surrounding Timmy\u2019s death.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Abuelita patted my knee and said, \u201cYou mustn\u2019t blame yourself Magadalita.\nIt was an accident \u2013 just a misfortunate accident which was bound to happen.\nTito was like a high-spirited horse who would have burned himself out\neventually. He was always challenging himself to try the next hard thing,\ntaking risks he was not ready for. I saw it the day he was born, the way he\ncame into the world as though it were a big adventure. His cry was more like\nlaughter \u2013 as though he were delighted to be free of his mother\u2019s womb and to\nbegin an exciting journey. As he grew older, I saw so much of Carlos in him,\nthe way he was so comfortable in his body and his athleticism. He was as\ncomfortable on the back of a horse as Carlos was out on the dance floor, but it\nwas the same thing, you know. He was a handsome boy, with your grandfather\u2019s\neyes, your mother\u2019s cheekbones, and the fine nose of Carlos. There wasn\u2019t a\ndrop of Joe in his blood. I knew that from the moment I set eyes on him, and I\nprayed every day that he would not be cursed by the Blessed Virgin Mary, that\nJoe would not find out, and that he would live a long and prosperous life. But\nmy prayers were in vain.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n There he was again. Carlos \u2013 the elusive tango dancer whom I only\nrecently learned was Mama\u2019s lover for twenty-five years, and possibly my father\nand most definitely Timmy\u2019s. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAbuelita,\u201d I said in a voice crackling with exhaustion, \u201cWhat do you\nremember about the day that Timmy died?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh,\u201d she said, \u201cthat day. That day was a terrible day. We did not have\nthose fancy cell phones, like you girls carry around with you today. It was not\nall that easy to make contact by phone in Mexico. Your mother had gone down to visit Carlos\nshortly after Joe returned from wherever it was, he had been with the army for\nthree months. I did not think anything of it. I knew that she would not leave\nthe children unless everything was in order, and it was not unusual for her to\nvisit Carlos at such times. She could not get away when Joe was gone, because\nyou were all older and in school. It wasn\u2019t like the old days, when she could\npack you up and bring you down to the ranch to stay with me. That was before\nyou were in school and had other obligations. She was like a caged cat when Joe\nwas away. She could not stand being parted from Carlos, nor he from her. Joe\nwould be gone for months at a time, leaving her with all the responsibilities\nof the McCullagh Ranch, as well as you children. I think he understood how difficult it was\nfor her \u2013 how it grated against her artistic sensibilities. She would stick\naround for a week or so after Joe returned from one of his army ventures, then\nshe would flee across the border under the guise of having to work on some\ndance routines with the children or at her cousin\u2019s dance studio in\nMonterrey. The family was still involved\nin the international ballroom competitions back then, and your mother was\nparamount in the preparation of studio dancers. She was very good. I do not know\nif you realize how good she was. Had she and Carlos stuck together as dance\npartners and not become lovers, she may have become world class by the time she\nwas twenty-five.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAbuelita,\u201d I interjected, \u201cHow did you track her down when daddy called\ndown to the ranch?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh \u2013 that was a terrible thing,\u201d she began, \u201cFirst of all, Joe thought\nfor some reason that she was visiting me on the ranch, and I had to explain to\nhim that no, she had gone to Monterrey to help Enrique with the dance camp to\nprepare for the fall tour of Los Campos\nde Mexicanos. <\/em>But, in truth, I knew that she would be with Carlos the whole\ntime. They traveled back and forth between Monterrey and the beach house Carlos\nhad bought for them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo \u2013 what happened when daddy\nstarted calling down to the Ranch to tell you that Timmy had the accident? What\ndid you say to him?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Abuelita thought for a moment as though she were trying to reach back\ninto the past and dig up the facts which had been buried all these years.\n\u201cWell, at first I did not understand the dire circumstance. I told Joe that\nyour mother was in Mexico and I would try to reach her. But then he called a\nhalf hour later and said it was really important. I tried and I tried. I called the beach house, I called the\nstudio\u2026I could not get through. We did not have answering machines back then. I\ncalled my brothers, my mother, and all my cousins. No one knew how to find\nCarlos or your mother. Finally, I\nconvinced my brother, Enrique to drive down to the beach house and try to wake\nthem, hoping that they were there and not on some excursion to dance. He\narrived around midnight, and he pounded on the door until Carlos finally was aroused\nand answered. Your mother was there. Enrique explained that Timothy had been\nhurt in an accident with the horse and that it did not look good. What they did\nnot know at the time was that Timmy was already dead. Your mother flew from\nMonterrey to Old El Paso on a small plane which Carlos had managed to procure\non a short notice. But by the time she arrived back at the McCullagh Ranch,\nTimmy was long gone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHoly shit,\u2019 Dodie piped in, \u201cthat must have caused a raucous.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes, it did. Joe was furious with your mother. She still didn\u2019t realize\nTimmy was dead, and when she finally did, she collapsed and went into a deep\ndepression. I not only lost a grandson that day, but my daughter as well. She\nnever really came back to us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Abuelita gathered up the cups and\nplates and shuffled off to the kitchen. Before we went off to bed, Dodie handed\nme the journal she\u2019d been thumbing through.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou might want to read this. I didn\u2019t get a chance to, but I scanned it.\nI think it\u2019s mama\u2019s account of Timmy\u2019s death.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I held the thin notebook with its marbleized cover. It was marked 1980, a\nyear that was missing from the documents found in the trunk in the bank vault.\nThe journal had been tucked away in the hatbox in my mother\u2019s old bedroom on\nthe double B ranch for over twenty years. Inside was the fragile bird of my\nmother\u2019s broken heart and I wasn\u2019t sure I was ready to hold that busted wing.\nIt was the story of that dark night when my mother began her solo journey into\ndepression and near suicide after saying goodbye to her only son and leaving\nthe only man she ever really loved. I didn\u2019t think I should open that journal\nby myself. But I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Death Would Be a Splendid Thing<\/p>\n\n\n\n Magdalena\u2019s version<\/p>\n\n\n\n I brought mama\u2019s 1980 journal to bed with me and curled up with it under\nthe covers. Though I wasn\u2019t really sure I wanted to know what was inside, I\nknew that if I wanted to make peace with my mother and myself, I was going to\nhave to bear witness to her pain. It wasn\u2019t something I could run away from\nanymore. I opened the notebook and began to read my mother\u2019s fine, but shaky\nhandwriting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n January 27, 1980<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n McCullagh Ranch<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Valium\nand bourbon get me through the afternoons and the long, sleepless nights. I\nhaven\u2019t had the heart to clean out Timmy\u2019s room, and Joe finally took it upon\nhimself on Sunday. I could not bear to be in the house, watching Joe and the\ngirls pack up all his belongings, those little boy things that are so treasured\nby a ten-year-old. I imagined the collections stowed away in shoe boxes, shiny\nrocks and pen knives, dried up mouse skeletons, arrowheads and pottery sherds. I took Dickie out for a ride for the first\ntime in months. It was the first time I had set foot in the stables since the\naccident. Rusty had been sold a few weeks after Timmy died and his empty stall\nwas a sore reminder. Dickie was lethargic and poked along as if he had picked\nup on my dark mood. I just sat there listless and pathetic on my big old\ngelding, plodding through thick tears on the cold, Texas plains.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I\ncannot explain why I burst into tears at odd moments. The intersection of the\ncereal aisle in the grocery store can send me into hysterics if I get a whiff\nof Captain Crunch or some other favorite of Timmy\u2019s. I am not fit for the\npublic eye. My children and my husband roll their eyes. I know what they are\nthinking, \u201cThere she goes again\u2026but where was she when it happened?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Yes\n\u2013 where was I when my little boy died? Far, far away in that other life I used\nto know, in the arms of my lover, my son\u2019s father, another woman\u2019s husband. A\nlife I cannot seem to fight my way back to because it is too painful of a reminder\nof peace and happiness, a thing I will never know again.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n But\nI will try to remember. Not because I want to. I do not remember for myself,\nbut for my daughter, Maggie, who will one day need to remember as well. I reach\nmy hand out of the formidable darkness toward the faint glimmer of hope that\nshe might one day forgive me. It is the tiny gossamer thread that keeps me tied\nto this earth.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n When Joe returned from Nicaragua in\nJune of 1979, he was edgy. I always tried to have things nice when he came home\n\u2013 fresh flowers on the table \u2013 a special meal. Usually he was relieved to be\nback at the ranch and once that uniform and his fatigues were hung in the closet,\nhe\u2019d return to his old cowboy self. We\u2019d spend a few days riding the range with\nthe kids and visiting his family. But this time was different. He didn\u2019t want\nto do any of those things. He seemed bothered by what he had seen. He paced the\nden like a caged lion, and I knew he wanted to pick up that phone and make a\ncall \u2013 an important call \u2013 to let someone know what he knew. But he didn\u2019t. He\nwas short with the girls, and intolerable with me. I\u2019d finally had enough and\ninformed him that I had to go help my cousin with the summer dance camp and I\nwould be back in two weeks. It was a relief to get out of there. When I left on\nJuly 1st<\/sup>, Dodie was off to summer camp, and our nephew, Donny, was\non his way to the ranch to spend the summer with Timmy. Maggie had her usual\npile of books to read and several horse shows lined up. Other than Joe\u2019s foul\nmood, everything seemed in order.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n As always, my heart was torn\nbetween my children and Carlos. I hated leaving them behind. When I was away\nfrom them, I had the same longing I felt for Carlos when we were separated.\nDuring the long drive to Mexico, I would spend hours trying to reconcile my\nheart with my head. Part of me wanted to bring the children with me and leave\nTexas behind once and for all \u2013 and live as a family with Carlos. But I knew\nthat would never work. I knew that Carlos and I would not sustain our passion\nand drive were we living a normal life together. The silk scarves which tied us\nloosely together would become knotted up in red tape. Neither of us had the\nattention our spouses had for the details of life. We would be a shipwreck in\nno time at all. Still, we could not say goodbye. We could not keep away.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n By the time I reached our little\nhouse on the beach in La Pesca, I had become that other Magdalena, the one whom\nCarlos loved more than his life. Texas, Joe, and yes, I am ashamed to admit\neven my children, were neatly tucked away as if they were but a dream life and\nthis life was real. Carlos\u2019 wife was at their home in Argentina, where her\nchildren were in school and it was cooler. We had at least two weeks of bliss\nahead of us. In the day time we would teach at the dance camp. At night and on\nweekends we would retreat to La Pesca. I would call home every two days to make\nsure the children were alright and to fulfill my obligations as a wife. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Joe still seemed preoccupied when I\ncalled. Rumors of war and revolution were heating up in Latin America. We saw\nit in Mexico with the influx of wealthy oligarchy buying up villas in Monterey\nand their sudden emigrations to Florida. The maids and wait-staff in hotels and\nrestaurants changed seemingly overnight from round-faced Mexicans to fine boned\nSalvadoran peasants hiding behind frightened eyes. News from Chile was even\nworse. Under Pinochet\u2019s regime there were stories of the disappeared, and\nCarlos fretted for his brothers who owned a family vineyard at the foot of the\nAndes. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I was caught between two worlds \u2013 a\nhusband who made clandestine trips throughout Latin America and may have\ncontributed to the unspeakable repression, and a lover who had political ties\nto revolutionaries in the universities which were nurturing the seeds of\ncommunism. La Pesca was our refuge from the real world, a no-man\u2019s land where\nwe could put everything we knew aside. I was not the wife of a CIA operative\nstrangled by the constraints of the cold war. Carlos was not the passionate\npuppeteer of revolutionary intellectuals. We were simply Carlos and Magdalena.\nDancers. Lovers.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I\nhad been in Mexico about a week before Abuelita sent word about Tito. Carlos\nand I were exhausted. We had been working on a new routine for the debut of a\nNuevo tango composition by an expat Chilean guitarist, which we would perform\nin Madrid at the internationals in the fall. At night, we fell into bed and\neach other\u2019s arms not wanting to waste a second of this precious time together.\n<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n It breaks my heart now to think of\nit. Our love, our passion, was forever transformed that night when there came a\npounding on our door. Love will never be the same. It is forever dead to my\nsoul and I cannot even bear to write or think of Carlos who will always be\nassociated in my mind with the unbearable loss I feel.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n February 6, 1980<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Joe\ntold me I am an embarrassment to him and the family. He is ashamed of me. I\ncannot raise myself out of bed. My hair is dirty, but I do not care. He thinks\nI am addicted to the valium, but I don\u2019t need it. I could stop any time. I just\ndon\u2019t want to. I do not want to feel the three-headed monster pushing up\nagainst my womb which was last occupied by my Timotito, my little boy.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n My\nbody was so limp and lifeless when Joe tried to wake me, he thought I was dead.\nHe shook me and shook me, but I could not respond. I could tell he thought I\u2019d\ntaken an overdose. But I hadn\u2019t. Finally, he gave up and began a tirade of\nshouting.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDamn\nit, Maggie! You think you are the only one who has ever lost a son?! Think of\nall the boys who have died on the battlefield. I have held them in my own arms,\nknowing that their mother\u2019s heart was going to break. But I have never seen\nanyone, and I mean it, Maggie, as self-centered and narcissistic as you. I have\nsat with mothers and fathers whose boys could not be identified except by their\nteeth \u2013 and you know what? They didn\u2019t curl up and die. Life fucking goes on!\nYou take the worst blow life has to offer, and you pick yourself up and you\ncome back from the dead to the living. What about your other children! What about me! Look at you \u2013 you\u2019re a pathetic mess, a poor\nexcuse for a wife and a mother. Maggie and Dodie need you. For Christ sakes, I\nneed you!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I\ncouldn\u2019t stand listening to his bellowing voice punctuating my brain like an\nassault rifle. I turned onto my side and put the pillow over my head, and I\nfelt the jolt of electric pain in my body when Joe slammed the door behind him.\nIt made me think of that awful anti-communism advertisement about the slamming\nof the \u201cIron Curtain\u201d. It seems like my\nmarriage to Joe has been a series of prison doors slamming tight. He, locking\nme in the isolation of having to do battle with my own feelings. Me locking him\nout of each layer of my heart and throwing away the golden key. But I know he is right. It is now or never. I\neither join the living \u2013 or I join the dead.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The\nproblem is a large part of me had already died that terrible night. When I\nfinally made my way home after Enrique tracked us down it was 4:30 A.M. I had\nto take a cab from the airport because I couldn\u2019t reach Joe. The door was\nlocked, and the house was dark, which was unusual. Joe never locked the doors.\nThe car was parked askew in the turnaround drive. I set my bag down, fished my\nkeys out of my purse, and unlocked the door. The silence was eerie \u2013 not\nbecause the house was empty, but because I sensed that it was full. There was a\npalpable energy, a sadness that pulsed in the air. I flicked on the light in\nthe foyer, and that\u2019s when I saw him. Joe was seated in his big old leather\nchair in the den. The door was wide open, and he sat there rigid as stone like\nthe statue of the President in the Lincoln Memorial. His eyes were red, and his\nbeard was a stubble of sawdust. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhere the hell were you, Maggie?\u201d\nhe demanded in a voice that did not quite sound like the Colonel Joe I knew.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTell me what\u2019s happened!\u201d I screamed.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n It was then that I noticed his\nshoulders shaking. He had been holding back his tears all along. My strong\nsoldier-husband who had been through the hell of war and back was reduced to a\nsniveling and broken man.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe\u2019s dead. Your son is dead. And\nwe couldn\u2019t track you down. If you were home, it wouldn\u2019t have happened! You\nselfish half-breed bitch!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n With that, Joe stumbled out of the\nroom and disappeared to another part of the house. I sank to the floor, numb. I\ncould not move my body. I was not sure I had heard correctly. It must have been\na mistake. Fingers of sunlight stretched through the east side windows across\nthe floor. Did he say Timmy was dead? They say that \u201cLove is a Many Splendid\nThing\u201d, but at that moment, all I longed for was death.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Finally, the tears came as I put my mother\u2019s journal down. By morning, my pillow would be soaked through. I just didn\u2019t have the where-with-all to read on. Not just yet. Something in my heart had cracked open and I had to stick a plug in that old dyke before the whole dam let lose. My greatest fear in life had been that I would end up like my mother if I let my emotions take reign. My coping mechanism was to fence in that wild mustang. But eventually, a wild horse must be set free.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" My sister Dodie and I were curled up on the leather couch in front of the fire at Grampy Bates\u2019 ranch. I\u2019d brought the hatbox I found in Mama\u2019s old closet that afternoon, and we were rummaging through old photographs, letters and memorabilia I hadn\u2019t seen before. On top of the pile there was … <\/p>\n