After dinner on the night before Christmas Eve, Joe’s mother, Mama Saura, cornered him while he was filling the ice trays at the sink. When Joe turned from the sink, carefully holding the stacked trays so the water would not spill over, he saw his portly mother standing beside the refrigerator. She was dressed entirely in black, as is the custom of all Spanish widows. Her dark gray hair was drawn back tightly in a bun. Her countenance was peaceful; the skin on her face was smooth and taut. Only the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes revealed her seventy-seven years. But her eyes were another story. As Joe glanced at his mother’s eyes he was struck by the blue brilliance of her irises. Other people’s eyes paled with age, Joe believed. Mama Saura’s shone like tiny beacons. She wore a humble smile on her lips. It was the thin, toothless smile she always displayed before she asked a favor, Joe thought. She reached up and opened the freezer door for Joe. Joe slid the trays in and closed the freezer. Before he turned, Mama had already begun to speak. Her voice was soft and high-pitched.
“Joe, you take me to the cemetery tomorrow?”
Joe smiled at his mother. She looked at him with wide, anxious eyes, as if she were frightened Joe would deny her. He had already told her twice that day that he would take her the next day into Jersey City to visit her late husband’s grave. Still, she needed to be reassured.
“Sure, Mama. I’ll take you. What, did you think I would forget?” He patted her gently on the shoulder.
“We must go early. We go late, there will be no more flowers.”
“Sure, sure. Ten o’clock okay?”
“No, no. Too late. Better nine.”
Joe reluctantly agreed. “Okay, nine o’clock. But when I’m in the car at nine o’clock with the motor running, and you’re not ready—”
“I’ll be ready.”
And Joe knew that she would. She walked by him out of the kitchen, her tiny, slipper-covered feet lightly tapping on the tile floor.
The next morning, Joe awoke to the sound of his mother knocking on his bedroom door. He stirred out of sleep and beheld Mama holding the door open enough to peek her head in. She appeared already washed and dressed. There was a look of annoyance in her eyes.
Joe looked at her through half-opened eyes. She stepped quietly over to his bed, trying not to cause the floor to creak. When she reached the bed, she poked Joe on the shoulder three times.
“Mama, I’m awake.” But his eyes were still closed. Joe’s wife Rosa, lying next to him, stirred.
Mama whispered now, so as not to wake Joe’s wife, but her whisper had the weight of urgency. “C’mon, Joe. Es oche y media. It’s 8:30.” She turned and left as quietly as she hadentered. Joe sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He ran his hands through his thinning grey hair.
For sixteen years now he had taken his mother to the cemetery. Papa, a small, stocky, ebullient man, a longshoreman like Joe, had died of a stroke at the age of 64 in 1966. Since then, Mama had worn only black. She kept her hair in a modest looking bun. She went to all of the novenas. And she visited the cemetery whenever she could. All of this was part of her mourning. Some of Mama’s friends only mourned their late husbands for a period of ten years. How can you mourn someone according to some sort of schedule? she asked.
Joe showered quickly and threw on some clothes. When he was dressed, he went downstairs to have a cup of coffee. Mama awaited him at the base of the stairs. She wore her black wool coat and her furry black cap. One arm was placed on the in banister. Joe walked by her calmly and entered the kitchen on the right. Mama gave him an impatient look and resigned herself to sit until he was ready. She placed herself in the closest chain to the stairs, while Joe busied himself with the Mr. Coffee in the kitchen.
When Joe’s coffee was ready, he sat in the dark kitchen and thought about his mother. She was a determined woman, he thought. Never in her whole life did she meet a problem with reserve. In the turbulent period before the Spanish Civil War in Spain, Mama saw the trouble brewing and quickly had the family pack their belongings and board a ship to America. During the war, she and Papa both found jobs, he on the docks of Bayonne, she in a screw factory. Her job was to place twenty-four identical screws in a plastic bag and then place the bag in a cardboard box containing assorted steel pieces. Because she was paid for piecework, she learned to become adept at counting the twenty-four screws with one hand while she placed a batch of screws in a bag with her other hand. She became the fastest worker in the factory. That was her, Joe thought, resilient. When Papa died, she came to live with Joe. When a couple is old and one of them died, it is very common for the remaining one to follow shortly thereafter. Not Mama, Joe thought. Mama would probably live longer than him. As much as he loved his mother, he winced at the thought.
He put the cup down, pulled himself out of the chair and walked into the living room, where Mama sat rigidly in waiting) “Ready, ” Joe said. Mama rose slowly and stepped around him to peer at the clock on the kitchen wall. “Don’t worry, ” Joe said, “we’re only a little late.”
“Little late, ” Mama said as she waved her right arm franticly at the clock. “Es nueve y media!”
“C’mon, let’s go, or we’ll be even later.” Together the two descended the steps to the entrance foyer. Joe got his coat, opened the door for Mama, and together they left.
Joe was perfectly willing to take Mama Saura to the cemetery but the day seemed grey and cloudy, an unsuitable day, Joe thought, for anyone to be around the cemetery. The cemetery was in an isolated part of town, bordered by quiet roads, apart from any traffic. The only residential housing in the area were two apartment buildings, ten story red brick structures for low-rent housing. Joe was frightened to be even near the place after he heard about all of the rapes and muggings that had taken place in the last month.
“Mama, we can’t keep going to the cemetery so often now. It’s a bad neighborhood and getting worse.”
“We don’t go so often, Joe. Can’t I go see Papa the times that I must pay my respect. It is not so many times.”
“When you go, then, I’ll take you. No more of Rosa or Joaquina taking you. I heard that last week a girl was beaten and raped inside a mausoleum by two kids.” Joe didn’t mean to frighten Mama; he only wanted to tell her how serious things had gotten. Still, he instantly regretted telling her about the incident.
“Madre de Dios!” she cried. “Los animales!” Mama was shaking in anger.
It was best that she knew of the crime in the area, Joe thought. Then she would not insist on being taken to the cemetery so frequently. Most times Joe did not mind, but there were some days when his back gave him pain from a long week on the docks. On such days Joe would rather remain in bed. But he always crawled out of bed when pestered by Mama’s pathetic frown. She would peek her head in and say, “Joe, you can’t take me? Who’ll take me?”
Joe felt that Mama at times assumed too much authority in his household. It was common for her to meddle. The other day she slapped Joe’s fifteen-year-old son Frank when he smoked a cigarette in her presence. Rosa later rebuked Mama. She told her that she was aware of her son’s smoking, and though she disapproved, she felt her son old enough to choose for himself whether or not he wanted to smoke. Mama huffed loudly and told Rosa that she did not know how to raise her children. Joe was infuriated when her heard of the incident later. If he had seen Frank smoking, he would surely have been upset, but he could not tolerate his mother slapping his son. She always compared things to how life was when she lived back in Spain. She’d often resort to empty-minded comparisons such as, “Back in Spain no one ever did that; people are beautiful in Spain.” When relating the simple beauty of Spain to her grandchildren she did not mention anything of the long period of Franco’s dictatorship when the Guardia Civil patrolled the streets with machine guns. Her memories of Spain were simple and ordered, unlike Francoist Spain, Joe thought.
They arrived at the cemetery, but mama wanted to stop at the flower shop across the street. Joe parked in front of the store and walked around the car to help his mother out. She got out and stepped quickly in front of him to enter the shop.
Once inside the shop, Mama was torn between which decoration she should purchase for the stone of her husband. She liked the many wreaths that lay about, but she also was fond of the red and green poinsettias. She asked Joe for his opinion, but he was of no help, only commenting on how expensive they all were. Finally Mama chose a handsome Christmas wreath with a bright red bow. Joe paid for the wreath and smiled as he heard Mama chastise the boy in the store who picked up the wreath for her, for he handled it roughly. When Joe finished paying for the wreath, Mama called him over to investigate a larger, more elaborate wreath with pine cones, ribbons, and steel bells. “This one is better, no, Joe?” Joe was irritated. “I already paid for the other one. It’s good enough. C’mon.” As they left the store, Mama said they had chosen the perfect wreath and commended Joe for his selection. She assured him that she would repay him for the wreath when her next Social Security check arrived. Joe said that she would do no such thing, the wreath was paid for and he would accept no money from her. Mama touched his arm in thanks.
Joe placed the wreath in the trunk of the car. They both got in, and Joe drove the car through the rusted gate of a chain link fence into the cemetery property. There were spots of snow on the ground, yet most of the plots remained clear. As Joe slowly cruised down the narrow cemetery path, Mama read the names off the passing tombstones and remarked to Joe about which belonged to her past friends. She recalled the way some of them had died. “Cancer of the bone. He suffered a lot.” She made the sign of the cross as she passed a friend’s grave. “God bless.” Mama pointed to the spot where Frank Sinatra’s mother was once buried, but sadly related how Sinatra had the body disinterred and flown out to California where it was reburied. Mama said he did this because he was afraid of grave robbers. Joe grinned at this remark and Mama glared at him as if offended. She looked out the window and pointed nervously at the row where her husband was buried. “Alli. Alli. Joe, there. Over there.” Joe nodded and pulled the car over to the edge of the path, very near to where Papa’s grave was. It was in the north corner of the cemetery, close to the high bordering fence. Beyond the fence rose the two red brick apartment buildings, old structures built with little regard for design. They looked like brick blockhouses, ten story prisons.
Joe again helped his mother out of the car and they advanced together down the aisle of stones. He held Mama’s left arm at her elbow to prevent her from stumbling on the rough, cloddy earth.
Finally they arrived at the gravesite. It bore a granite stone: Esteban Saura, 1902-1966. On the stone there was a bas-relief of the Virgin Mary surrounded by two angels. The sculpture was badly chipped, and the Virgin’s face appeared scarred. A jagged stone fragment was missing from her smooth forehead. Mama sighed painfully at the sight of the disfigured stone. She pointed to the broken beer bottles at the base of a nearby stone. “See, Joe. They throw the bottles. No respecta.” Mama bent down and picked up the glass from the neighboring plot. Joe told her to stop, that she would cut herself, but she did not listen. When she was finished, Joe took the glass from her hands, walked over to a trash can at the end of the row and discarded the glass.
Joe looked back at Mama and saw that she was praying before the grave. She was crying quietly. She held wooden rosary beads in her hands, and hung her purse on her forearm. Joe had seen her cry each time he brought her to the grave. He marveled at the devotion of his mother, but wondered how she could continue. How long can a woman be expected to grieve for her late husband? How long can a woman’s life be devoted to a loved one long dead? Every time I come here, Joe thought, I witness a woman who would rather be with her dead husband.
“I’ll get the wreath,” Joe yelled to his mother.
He walked back to the car and opened the trunk. The evergreen smell hit him and he was delighted by the fragrance. He picked up the wreath with his left hand and reached up to shut the trunk with his other hand. He hesitated when he noticed three dark-haired youths, no older than 16, slowly approaching Mama through the rows of headstones. Mama did not notice the boys as she stared at her husband’s grave. The purse she held hung loosely at her side. There could not be more than twenty dollars in the purse, but Joe suspected that that was all the boys were after.
One boy kicked up a rock which ricocheted off a headstone. Mama looked up and finally saw the three boys. She saw them looking directly at her. One of the boys smiled cunningly. Mama felt unable to move: she was in the middle of her rosary.
“Mama, go to the car!” Joe yelled. Mama turned and stepped nervously toward Joe. Joe shut the trunk and ran out to meet her. He held a tire iron in his hands. The two met in the aisle and Joe took her hand, leaving his other hand to wield the weapon.
“Go away!” Joe screamed. “Get away, you bastards, or I’ll break your skulls!” Mama stopped crying and looked at the boys in anger. They moved slowly toward Joe’s car. Joe was worried that they might have knives. When they had almost reached the car, Joe yelled again. “Away from the car. Now, dammit!” Joe stepped quickly as if to charge the youths. Mama kept close behind him. The boys, scared initially, jogged away from Joe. Joe quickly escorted Mama to the car, and then walked around to the driver’s side, still holding the tire iron. The boys calmly appraised him. One boy laughed mockingly.
Joe got in the car and started the engine. He pushed hard on the gas and the car lurched into drive. When he passed the three boys, one of them threw a rock at the car. It glanced across the windshield without shattering the glass. Mama cursed at the boy through the window. “El diablo. Tu eres un diablo!”
When they were safely past the boys, Joe asked his mother if she was alright. She said that she was fine. Then she remembered the wreath. She asked Joe if they could go back to put the wreath on Papa’s grave. Joe, who was still excited from the confrontation, said, “What, are you crazy? Go back there again?”
“A nice wreath, too,” Mama said sadly. She sniffled and looked down at the wooden rosary beads she still held in her hands. She quietly finished her last Hail Mary and ended the prayer. She made the sign of the cross and then placed the rosary in a small cardboard box in her purse. Mama looked back through the rear window at the passing stones and the winding curve of the narrow path. She softly whispered goodbye to the spirit of her husband.
After they had returned home, Joe was sitting before his television watching a football game when he heard a banging at his front door. He walked quickly over to the door and opened it. Mama stood before him with a small hammer in her hand. She was looking at the door proudly. Joe saw the newly placed wreath hanging from a hook in the middle of the door. “Nice, huh, Joe?” Mama asked. “Beautiful,” he said. He smiled as he drew his arm around her and led her back inside.
cool lima bean 