Nada
Almost as soon as Dona Ernestina got the telegram about her son's having been killed in Vietnam, she started giving her possessions away. At first we didn't realize what she was doing. By the time we did, it was too late. The army people had comforted Dona Ernestina with the news that her son's "remains" would have to be "collected and shipped" back to New Jersey at some later date, since other "personnel" had also been lost on the same day. In other words, she would have to wait until Tony's body could be processed. Processed. Dona Ernestina spoke that word like a curse when she told us. We were all down in El Basement—that's what we called the cellar of our apartment building: no windows for light, boilers making such a racket that you could scream and almost no one would hear you. Some of us had started meeting here on Saturday mornings —as much to talk as to wash our clothes—and over the years it became a sort of women's club where we could catch up on a week's worth of gossip. That Saturday, however, I had dreaded going down the cement steps. All of us had just heard the news about Tony the night before. I should have known the minute I saw her, holding court in her widow's costume, that something had cracked inside Dona Ernestina . She was in full luto—black from head to toe, including a mantilla. In contrast, Lydia and Isabelita were both in rollers and bathrobes: our customary uniformforthese Saturdaymorning gatherings —maybe our way of saying"No Men Allowed." As I approached them, Lydia stared at me with a scared-rabbit look in her eyes. Dona Ernestina simply waited for me to join the other two leaning against the machines before she continued explainingwhat had happened when the news ofTony had arrivedat her door the daybefore. 5° Nada She spoke calmly, a haughty expression on her face, looking like an offended duchess in her beautiful black dress. She waspale, pale, but she had a wild look in her eyes. The officer had told her that—when the time came—they would bury Tony with "full military honors"; for now they were sending her the medal and a flag. But she had said, "No, gracias" to the funeral, and she sent the flag and medals back marked Ya no vive aqui: Does not live here anymore. "Tell the Mr. President of the United States what I say:No, gracias." Then she waited for our response. Lydia shook her head, indicating that she was speechless. And Elenita looked pointedly at me, forcing me to be the one to speak the words of sympathy for all of us, to reassure Dona Ernestina that she had done exactly what any of us would have done in her place: yes, we would have all said No, gracias, to any president who had actually tried to pay for a son's life with a few trinkets and a folded flag. Dona Ernestina nodded gravely. Then she picked up the stack of neatly folded men's shirts from the sofa (a discard we had salvaged from the sidewalk)and walked regallyout of El Basement. Lydia, who had gone to high school with Tony, burst into tears as soon as Dona Ernestina was out of sight. Elenita and I sat her down between us on the sofa and held her until she had let most of it out. Lydia is still young—a woman who has not yet been visited too often by la muerte. Her husband of six months has just gotten his draft notice, and they have been trying for a baby—trying very hard. The walls of El Building are thin enough so that it has become a secret joke (kept only from Lydia and Roberto) that he is far more likely to escape the draft due to acute exhaustion than by becoming a father. "Doesn't Dona Ernestina feel anything?" Lydia asked in between sobs. "Did you see her, dressed up like an actress in a play—and not one tear for her son?" "We all have different ways of grieving," I said, though I couldn't help thinking that there wczs a strangeness to Dona Ernestina and that Lydia was right when she said that the woman seemed to be acting out a part. "I think we should wait and see what she is going...
OR
