The Angels of Buena VIsta

-I.

I stood out on the balcony, scared and worried. I breathed in the crisp night air. The door creaked open and I turned to see my fiancé, Javier, stepping out to join me. I turned back to stare at the landscape, ignoring his entrance. He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my thin waist. I shrugged him off and walked to the other side of the balcony.

“Ximena, please…” He pleaded, grabbing my hand. I just pulled my hand back from him, folding my arms across my chest, “You know why I have to go.” I turned to face him, tears swimming in my eyes.

“I don’t have to like it.” He held me by my waist and I placed my head on his shoulder.

“No, you don’t.” He just held me until the sun began to rise over the mountains, letting me sob out all of my worries and fears. When my mother poked her head out on the balcony, to tell us that Javier would need to eat before he left, that’s how she found us.

“Promise me you’ll come home?” I whispered to him, refusing to let go until he did.

“Promise me you’ll be waiting?” He joked, with the heart-melting smile that would have any girl swooning. I couldn’t help but smile back.

“Forever.” He pulled me close again, burrowing his face into my chestnut hair.

“How could I stay away with that offer?” For the first time that night, I giggled, before leading him inside to enjoy my mother’s world famous Huevos Rancheros, which I could smell from out here.

Three hours later, Javier was ladled down with food that my mother had spent all night preparing, no doubt to keep her hands busy, and was mounting his horse to ride off to fight in a war that isn’t ours. Before turning to meet his fellow soldiers in the town square, he held his hand out to me. After I took it, he leaned down to whisper in my ear, “I promise,” before kissing my cheek gently and riding away. I ran back into the house, throwing myself onto my bed and sobbing my heart out for all to see.

-II.

It’s been two weeks, and still no news of where Javier is, or when he is coming home. I had been going through my days in a fog, not really seeing, just doing and waiting. My mother wasn’t much better. Even though Javier and I had only been courting for three months before he proposed, Mother always wanted a son, and Javier slotted right in. We were washing dishes in the kitchen when we heard the first bang. While picking up the pieces of the plate that I had dropped, Mother stepped out to look out the balcony to see what all the noise was all about. I dropped the pieces of glass when she came back in, looking white as death.

“Mother, Mother what is it?” She just pointed outside, so I moved from her side, to walk cautiously outside to see what had scared. Before I had even reached the doorway, I smelled the gun powder and smoke from cannons. Another bang confirmed what I was already sure of. The battle had come to us.

It had only been three hours but already it felt like months. I couldn’t tell who was winning in my minds-eye, but I couldn’t do anything but assume the worst. Every gunshot was aimed at Javier, every cannon blast a shot through his wiry frame. I pictured his ebony hair stained red, and his amber eyes, usually filled with mischief, losing the light that seemed to always fill them. At times the firing would lessen others it would be nearly deafening in the echoes that the mountain passes provided. No matter the sounds, the American and Mexican rifles sounded the same. Mother was in her room, praying the rosary, and while I tried to do the same, I couldn’t concentrate on my thoughts, all I could hear were the gunshots, and the cannon blasts, and try and remind myself that he promised he’d come home.

It was dark when the shooting stopped. I didn’t realize how comforting the gunshots had become until they stopped; leaving Mother and I plunged in absolute silence and darkness. The gunshots had meant that the battle continued, and that Javier still had a chance. Now that the battle was over, there would be a clear winner and loser, and the reality of all of this crashed down.

-III.

Three hours after the shooting ended, a knock came on the door and I sprinted to the door, my burgundy skirt flying behind me. I yanked it open, hoping to see Javier, instead seeing our neighbor, Senora Portia, holding a huge jug of water and several pristine white cloths.

“I’m going to heal our soldiers, will you come?” I nodded, running to grab my shawl and quickly plait my long hair. I joined her in our courtyard with an extremely heavy water jug and several rags of my own. She nodded to me and I gave a weak smile back.

As we arrived on the battlefield, the smell of sweat and blood was almost over-bearing. The grass, which was always a bright, almost unnatural, shade of green this time of year, was torn up and muddy, stained red in spots, but that was nothing compared to the sounds.

Men were crying, yelling with all their soul, for loved ones, for relief from the pain, for some sort of savior. I didn’t matter that I didn’t speak English very well; anyone with ears would know what the cries of the Americans were for. With a final look at Senora Portia, we set off in our different directions, looking for any Mexican soldier still living.

-IV.

The sun was just rising over the mountain pass when I approached another broken Mexican body. I re-wet my cloth, which had once been a clean, starched white, but was now a dirty brown from the layers of dirt and blood. When the dirty rag was damp, because I didn’t have enough water to completely drench the cloth, I began on wiping the face of the soldier. At first he looked like all the others, with dark skin, dark hair, wearing a Mexican army uniform, and coated in dirt, but only when he opened his eyes did I see who this soldier was.

Even in his final minutes (for I wouldn’t delude myself into thinking otherwise), Javier’s eyes still lit up with the same mirth that seemed to draw me in. He seemed to recognize me, but I wasn’t sure until he gave me a small, weak smile.

“I told you I’d come home.” He coughed out, while I wiped his forehead. Rewetting the rag, I squeezed the drops into his mouth, brushing his hair away from his face.

“I knew you would. You’ve never lied to me.” He tried to give a weak chuckle, but ended up in a coughing fit.

“Take care of yourself Ximena. Don’t forget to remember me.” Before I could even choke out a reply, his amber eyes closed and he let out a final shuttering gasp. I leaned down and kissed his forehead, before taking off his engagement ring, so I could remember him forever.

-V.

As I sat sobbing beside Javier’s broken body, I heard a keen of pain beside me. I would’ve ignored it, for I felt like releasing a few cries myself, but the voice sounded young, like a child. I shifted my weight to the small body, who wasn’t much more than a child. Where was his mother when he came out here?

I wet my rag and began to wipe his face. I noticed blood flowing from his hands, and I grabbed ahold of one and washed it clean. His bleary eyes opened to look at me, and unlike most of the Mexican soldiers, they were a bright, clear blue, filled with a child-like innocence that I’ve never seen in a soldier. I gave him a small smile, which was all I could muster for the small child, before I noticed his ammunition box, hanging from his waist:

The Eagle.

I fell back against Javier’s body and looked into his face. Even in his deadly silence, even with his eyes closed, I still felt that he knew what I was thinking. It was then I realized, out here, when the battle was over, the side they fought for meant nothing. All that mattered was that you didn’t die before help came. Javier died, but could I help this young American, this child?

Slowly, as if he was going to sit up and attack me, I moved back to the blue-eyed Yankee. I supported his head, while I poured a little water into his mouth, giving him another small smile. He smiled back and reached for my hand as the light started to dim from his eyes, realizing that this child would not make it out of the battle alive. I leaned down, placing a sweet butterfly kiss on his forehead. Before the blue sparkle completely extinguished, he found the strength squeeze my hand and croak out weakly,

“Mother,” before his eyes closed on the world and battlefield forever. Although I wasn’t his mother, I sat beside the ginger-haired American and wept. Wept for him, for his mother and her loss, wept for Javier, my fiancé who would never be husband, and all of the others who lost today, for although Mexico won this battle, as I surveyed the battlefield, I saw no victory.

-VI.

I stood from my place on the ground with a new resolve. Walking to the next wounded I saw, I didn’t see a uniform. I didn’t see a Yankee or a Mexican. I didn’t see the scarlet uniform of the Americans or the black uniform of the Mexicans. I saw another child. Adolescence such as myself, who had been broken and battered. My job was simple. Help.

-VII.

It was close to nightfall when I finally stumbled back into my house. My mother ran forward, throwing her arms around me, whispering prayers of purity into my ears, trying to purge me of the horrors I had seen last night. I gently pushed her away, knowing that the Virgin Mary herself could bless me, but I would never forget what I had seen this very night.

“Mama, I wish to rest, please.” My mother pushed me toward my room, whispering that she would bring me some chamomile for my nerves. I walked into my room and opened the wardrobe, looking for my nightdress, instead coming face to face with my wedding dress.

My mother and the ladies from the village had spent hours sewing the beads on the cream-colored dress, along with creating the creative embroidery that ran up and down the skirt. I had tried it on every day since I got it, but now it sat in the wardrobe, mocking me as to what would never be. I threw the dress on the floor collapsing in sobs on the soft rug of my room. My mother came into the room and gently picked me up. I was vaguely aware of her changing me from my day clothes, which had become covered with dirt and blood, into my nightdress, and was only slightly aware of her putting me into bed. When she started to run her fingers through my hair, like she did when I was young and had a nightmare, I finally said it. What I couldn’t think about or imagine earlier.

“He’s dead Mama. Javier’s dead.” And as we sat on the bed, crying out our grief, I realized I would never be the same again.