Cheating Death

It was Daddy’s birthday, three days after tax day, and talk of death was everywhere. That morning I caught a report on CNN – over 3500 American soldiers dead in Iraq. And then yesterday some sick kid shot down more than 30 people at Virginia Tech. Everyone was talking about it – on T.V., at work, on the bus to and from work. It’s all you heard.

I said, “Happy Birthday, Daddy,” as I walked into the room. It came out all wrong – too matter-of-fact. Daddy grunted and pulled himself to a sitting position on the hospital bed. He held a shaky Styrofoam cup to his face. Most of the water missed its mark. I put my bags down as fast as I could, along with the over-sized birthday balloon, and rushed across the room too late to help. I didn't say anything. I never knew what to say to Daddy when Mom wasn't in the room.

After I settled onto the sofa, Daddy took a deep breath and forced his legs over the side of the bed using the momentum of his body, helping them along with wiry arms.  He paused to check his pulse placing two fingers over his upturned wrist. He wanted to be sure the synthetic heart valve was still opening and closing. His slight frame, even thinner than I remembered it, seemed almost skeletal beneath the thin blue hospital gown. He slid his feet to the ground. Half-sitting, half-standing, he grimaced and stood upright. “Time to do my walking,” he said to no one in particular. He shuffled toward the door, and waved me off as I moved toward him.

It was hard to see Daddy this way. His heart had taken him so far – from an itinerant farm worker to a small-business owner in the big city – and now it was failing him. Ten years ago, he could climb a scaffold like a monkey, and walk, without wavering, on the edge of a two by ten ceiling joist, perched three stories up. Hell, a year ago he could carry a stack of two-by-fours piled six high on one shoulder. Now he couldn’t lift a Styrofoam cup.

I blinked and he was an old man. Forty years of framing houses weathered his once flawless, pale skin. When I was a kid Daddy’s crystal green eyes, his pencil mustache expertly trimmed over thin lips, his light brown, wavy hair made him look like a 1940’s movie star, a Latin Errol Flynn.  Even his less-than-perfect nose – broken in a boyhood fight when a bigger kid called him a lazy Mexican – only added to his movie star persona. My uncles told me, “Your Daddy got his nose broke, but you shoulda’ seen the other kid’s face.” Daddy would smile and say, “He never called us lazy Mexicans again, I’ll tell ya that much.”  All those years ago, and I remember that story like I remember my name ‘cause Daddy didn't talk much about his childhood, and though he laughed from time to time, he almost never smiled.

Daddy shuffled back into the room, a little short of breath, checking his pulse again. He complained that the nurses were lazy, and waved me off as I reached out to help him into bed. “Why are you so stubborn,” I asked.

He turned up the T.V. volume control dangling off the bed rail. It was CCN on the war, replaying yesterday’s news conference. I was just glad it wasn't Virginia Tech. Bush’s face filled the screen. “He doesn't care about the poor” Daddy said. I fixed his covers as he slid into bed. “Daddy, don’t get yourself worked up.” “Who do ya think’s fightin’ this war?” He said. “The Mexicans and the Blacks. That’s who.” He said it as if he had just read it in an official pentagon report. “There are others in the military too,” I said. He shook his head.  “Mexicans and the Blacks. That’s whose fightin’ the war.” “They fight with technology now, Daddy. They fire missiles from miles away.” “Your cousin’s over there gettin’ shot at right now,” he said pointing at the screen, “And this cabron doesn't care.” “Didn't you vote for Nixon?” I said. He looked at me like I’d just punched him in the stomach, bringing up, he-who-shall-not-be-mentioned. I shouldn't have said it. I know. But I knew Nixon would shut him up, and sometimes I just can’t help myself.  “Get some rest,” I said, “You don’t want your new valve to shut down, do you?” His fingers were quick to move to his wrist.

Actually, I felt a little guilty ‘cause I forgot that my cousin was fightin’ over there. The men in our family have a history as grunts in the military. Daddy didn't serve ‘cause he was the youngest and there weren't any brothers left to stay home and take care of the farm. But his oldest brother was at Normandy. Two other brothers in Korea. His sister’s first-born died in a helicopter crash in ‘Nam. And now my cousin Chris was a Marine stacking body bags in Baghdad.

After Daddy fell asleep I leaned over the bed rail to kiss his forehead – something I’d never do if he were awake. I could see the tiny purple veins on his nose, the small bald spot where his thick hair once lived, the faint smell of Old Spice. Suddenly I felt like crying. Don’t know what it was. The war, Virginia Tech, my cousin stacking body bags, Daddy getting old. I don’t know what it was. I knew that if I let myself I would cry. But the men in my family don’t cry. At least not where anyone can see them. In fact, the men in my family are invisible in public. A little survival skill learned over generations of open discrimination.

I only saw Daddy cry twice in my lifetime. Once, when his brother died of a heart attack, leaving behind a wife and six kids.  And once when he took me to the El Rey Movie Theater on Harrisburg Street, to watch the Mexican cowboy movies. Twenty-five cents for a double-feature. Daddy loved a good value, and he adored the singing cowboys. Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and Tex Ritter were okay. But nothing compared to the Mexican singing cowboys like Antonio Aguilar, Vincente Fernandez, and his favorite of all time, Pedro Infante, who died in an airplane crash the same year Daddy’s momma died. In his heart, Pedro Infante would be forever attached to his momma, as if they’d gone down in the plane together. 

It was an old Pedro Infante movie we saw that day. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the shadow of Daddy’s hand wipe his face as the beautiful baritone belted out his lament. In the Mexican cowboy movies everyone always dies at the end, the hero, the heroine, the villain. They all died that day. And Daddy’s eyes were shiny wet when we left the theater. He said it was the bright sunlight.