Reaching Out (9 page)

"Here is a bulletin from KNPR Radio in San Francisco. Three shots were fired at President Kennedy's motorcade in
downtown Dallas. The first reports say that President Kennedy has been seriously wounded by this shooting."

I kept praying that he would survive. During the time Kennedy was campaigning for president, my mother favored him because she believed he would help poor people. And when he was elected, she said, "I am glad Kennedy won. He gives us hope." I felt like calling her, but we did not have a telephone at home. Then at about eleven-thirty we heard the final tragic news: "From Dallas, Texas, a flash from the Associated Press has confirmed that President Kennedy died at one o'clock Central Standard Time, two o'clock Eastern Standard Time."

"Oh, no!" Smokey pounded the top of his desk with his fist.

"
¡Dios mío! ¿Por qué?
" I cried out. My God, why? I felt shocked and confused. There was a brief pause. Then the radio announcer continued, "Vice President Lyndon Johnson has left the hospital in Dallas....Presumably, he will be taking the oath of office shortly and become the thirty-sixth president of the United States." immediately the Mission bells began to toll. As they continued to ring, Smokey and I left our room and joined other students, faculty, and staff at the Mission Church. We streamed into the church like rivers merging and emptying into a lake. Father Theodore Mackin, chairman of the Department of Theology, said Mass. We prayed and grieved together like a family in crisis, comforting each other.

After spending the weekend mourning the loss of President Kennedy and trying to make sense of it all, I packed a few things to go home for Thanksgiving. On Tuesday late afternoon, after classes, Pat Hall and I got a ride with Tom Maulhardt and headed south in his white Volvo on Highway 101. It was pouring rain. Pat, who lived in San Luis Obispo, offered to have Tom and me stay overnight at his parents' Ranchotel, a motel located on Monterey Boulevard in the tree-filled foothills in the north end of the city. We spent the night in separate Spanish-style cabins, which were warm and quiet and had a comfortable bed and a toilet and shower. It felt like paradise.

We slept in that morning, had a late breakfast at the motel, and spent the rainy afternoon watching the news on television about the assassination of the president. We discussed the possible motives for his murder and wondered if Lee Harvey Oswald had acted alone or if he had been hired to commit the crime. The film clip of President Kennedy being hit by bullets, his wite crawling onto the trunk of the limousine convertible, and a Secret Service agent running behind the car, jumping in the back, and shoving her back into the car before placing his body over hers and the president's kept playing over and over again. Those images became embedded in my mind. They reminded me of the stories my father had told me about the time he participated in the Cristero Revolt in Mexico in 1926. He was sixteen years old and was wounded in the knee and thrown in jail for
six months. "Those were tough times," he would say to me. "You could smell death in the air. The fields were irrigated with blood, and men hung from trees like rotting fruit." I could not understand violence. It scared and confused me.

Early that evening, Tom and I thanked Pat for his hospitality and left San Luis Obispo. It rained all the way to Santa Maria. Tom dropped me off at my older brother's house on Donovan Road, which was not as far out of his way as Bonetti Ranch, and he continued on to his home in Oxnard. Roberto and his family had moved from their small apartment into the two-bedroom house.

"What a nice surprise! It's so nice to see you," Darlene said, giving me a warm hug and a light kiss on the cheek.

"It sure is, Panchito," Roberto said, giving me a bear hug.

"It's great to see you too. I hope you don't mind my coming here first before I go home. It was easier for Tom to drop me off at your house."

"Of course we don't mind. I'll drive you home after we visit for a while," Roberto said.

"How's little Jackie?"

"We just put her down to bed. She'll be so excited to see you," Darlene said.

"She's getting into everything, wants to know everything, and has a great imagination," Roberto said proudly. "She takes after her favorite uncle. The other day we're sitting at the dinner table and she's looking up at the chandelier—you know it has light bulbs with shades on them in the shape of
drinking glasses—so she says, 'Look, Daddy, the glasses are drinking the light.'" We all laughed and were still laughing when the doorbell rang.

Roberto looked at his wristwatch. "We're not expecting anyone." He went to the door and opened it. "Mamá, what's the matter?"

My mother wobbled in, crying hysterically. The front of her button-down sweater was stained with blood drops. Her upper lip was swollen and her hair was wet and tangled.

"Mamá, please calm down," I said, hugging her. I could feel my heart racing, thinking she had been in an accident. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"
Ay, mijo
, no, no ... it's your dad ... your dad..." Roberto and I sat her down at the kitchen table. Darlene brought one of Jackie's blankets, wrapped it around my mother's shoulders, and wiped her face with a small washcloth.

"Is he hurt?" Roberto's voice quavered.

"He's been drinking ... he got in the car with Trampita, sped out, and lost control and ended up in a ditch near the Ranch. He didn't get hurt,
gracias a Dios.
Trampita was really scared. He said your dad slumped over the steering wheel and cried. Trampita pulled him out of the car and dragged him home. Your dad yelled at him and Torito and threw them out of the house. I left Rorra, Rubén, Trampita, and Torito at the Ranch with joe and Espy.
Ay! mijo
, I don't know what to do."

"He hit you, didn't he?" I said, angrily. I remembered the time my father slapped me on the side of the face with the back of his right hand when he had threatened to strike my mother and I intervened.

"He did, but he didn't mean it, mijo," she said, sobbing and lightly touching her bruised lip and smoothing the front of her sweater. She glanced at me and then looked down and added, "He couldn't keep his balance and when he was about to fall, I tried to catch him, and he accidentally hit me in the mouth with his elbow." I tried to catch her eye, but she turned the other way.

"Is he at the house now?" Roberto asked.

"
Sí, mijo
, but I don't want to go back. I am scared." She started sobbing again.

"Don't worry, Mamá. You stay here with Darlene, Panchito and I will go to the Ranch and talk to him."

The old DeSoto was parked behind Roberto's car in front of the house. We climbed into his car and drove to Bonetti Ranch. My brother and I were silent. We each knew what the other was feeling. As we turned onto East Main Street and crossed Suey Road, I couldn't help remembering how excited I used to get whenever our family returned to Bonetti Ranch every year in late December or early January, after the cotton season was over in Corcoran.

Once we turned into the Ranch, Roberto drove slowly, bumping up and down and swaying from side to side as the tires hit potholes full of water. It was pitch dark and drizzling.
Roberto parked in front of our barrack and took out a small flashlight from the trunk of his car, directed it toward our house, and repeatedly yelled, "Papá, are you all right?"

The stray dogs barked every time they heard our voices. We slowly approached the house and found our father moaning and sprawled in the front yard, near a broken cactus. He had cactus needles stuck on his chin and hands. Blood dribbled from his mouth.

"
Papá, aquí
estamos para
ayudarlo,
" I said, rubbing his right shoulder. We're here to help you.

He mumbled and tried to smile. His breath reeked of alcohol. Roberto and I helped him up and sat him on the front stairs. A small handgun fell out of his pants pocket. Roberto and I looked at each other in shock.

"What are you doing with a gun?" Roberto asked. My father mumbled again. The darkness was suddenly pierced by a red and yellow flashing light, followed by a siren.

"
Allí viene la
chota," my brother said. Someone must have called the police. The police car screeched to a halt behind my brother's car and a spotlight was focused on us. I looked down, trying to avoid the blinding light, just as I had when armed men dressed in green uniforms invaded the migrant camp in Tent City, moving through tents, searching for undocumented workers. I felt like the frightened child I was then. The police officers approached us and asked us to identify ourselves. They explained that they had received a call about hearing gunshots coming from our house.
Then one of the officers picked up the gun, which was lying near the steps.

"Is this yours?" he asked in a harsh tone of voice, pointing his flashlight directly at my father's face. His bloodshot eyes were unfocused and his thin, limp body slumped forward. He slurred a response and jerked his head to the side.

"Is this gun yours!" the officer repeated.

"Our father doesn't understand English." The officer made a bad face. Roberto continued, "Yes, it's his gun, but he is disoriented; he means no harm."

"Maybe not to you, but what about to himself?" the officer said. "I think we'd better take him into custody and put him in jail overnight until he sobers up. You can come by the police station tomorrow morning and pick him up."

The officers confiscated the gun, handcuffed my father, and shoved him into the back seat of the police car and drove him away. Roberto and I were shaken. We returned to my brother's house, told my mother what had happened, and reassured her that our father was safe. She calmed down, but she sobbed the whole time I drove home to Bonetti Ranch. That night none of us slept.

The next morning, Thanksgiving Day, my mother, Trampita, and I went to the Santa Maria police station to pick up my father. My other brothers and sister stayed home with our neighbors joe and Espy. Roberto met us at the station and the four of us waited nervously in the lobby, after checking in at the front desk. A few moments later, I spotted
my father dragging his feet down the hallway, accompanied by a police officer. His scuffed shoes were untied and his rumpled, faded shirt was half tucked into his dirty khaki pants. He was pale and unshaven and had dark rings around his bloodshot eyes.

"
¿Cómo están?
" he asked, greeting us with a troubling half-smile.

"
Bien, Papá,
" Roberto, Trampita, and I responded. Roberto gave him a hug and Trampita and I hugged him too. But, strangely, I felt awkward and distant. My mother stood behind us.

"
¿Cómo se siente?
" she asked, wanting to know how he felt. Her tone of voice sounded cold. My father did not respond.

The police officer summoned my mother to the front desk to sign some papers, and after that, we walked out of the police station. We were silent. Trampita opened the rear left door to our DeSoto, and Roberto and I helped our father slide onto the back seat. He scooted over and ordered my mother to sit next to him. She refused. This was the first time I had ever seen my mother disobey my father. She asked me for the car keys. I handed them to her and she drove us home.

Confused and sad abut my home life after the Thanksgiving holiday, I found some comfort by going to six o'clock Mass every morning with Smokey, who had joined the Altar Society. But I needed to talk to someone on campus who would listen and help me sort our my feelings. I was managing to complete homework assignments and attend classes, but my mind was not focused on my studies. Father Bartholomew O'Neill, a Jesuit priest and my professor of History of Christianity, noticed my lack of attention in his class. At the beginning of one class, he asked me a question based on the subject of his lecture and I could not answer it. Another day, he had to repeat a question twice because I was not listening. Both times I felt embarrassed and apologized. The third time this happened, he asked to see me in his office.

I went during his office hours, "I've been expecting you," he said in his deep, hoarse voice as I entered. He stood up from behind his large wooden desk and motioned for me to have a seat. His tall and lanky figure, dressed in a black cassock and Roman collar, dominated the dark office. He had a long face, olive complexion, deep-set brown eyes with bushy eyebrows, short hair, and a receding hairline. Students referred to him as "Shaky Jake" because he trembled slightly when he spoke or wrote on the blackboard. He sat back down, clasped his large hands, and rested them on his desk. "For the past few days, you seem distracted and disengaged in class. What seems to be the problem?"

"I am sorry, Father." My face felt hot. "I like the class very much, but I am having trouble at home." My eyes welled up and I felt a knot in my throat.

Father O'Neill leaned forward. "Would you like to tell me what kind of trouble?" His voice softened and he added, "Whatever you say will remain confidential." I proceeded to explain to him my situation at home and the pain and guilt I felt for not being able to help my father ease his suffering or to send more money home. He listened patiently. After realizing how long I had been talking, I apologized.

"No need to apologize," be said. "I can appreciate your difficult situation. But we must not despair. Things happen for a reason and we must have faith and trust in God that things will get better for you and your family, right?"

Yes,
but when?
I thought. He looked me straight in the eye, waiting for a response. "Yes, thank you, Father," I said after a long pause.

"Good. I am pleased we got a chance to talk." He looked at his watch and added, "I'd like to continue our conversation, but you must excuse me, I have a meeting to go to. Please see me after class Thursday. Meantime, I'll say a Mass for you and your family." I thanked him and left his office feeling better—and grateful.

The next class day, Father O'Neill asked me to take a walk with him after class. We strolled past the front of the Mission Church and St. Joseph's Hall, which was the Jesuit residence. "Lift up your chin," he said.