Azucena - Gomez had been one of those fortunate people who are born beautiful and who remain beautiful no matter what tricks life decides to play on them. Her name, translated from the Spanish, meant White Lily, and she seemed to have been appropriately named because her skin was white and smooth, and her face, her body, seemed to combine all the delicate beauty and regality of that flower. The oval of her face was dominated by brown eyes which slanted to lend an exotic flair to otherwise serene features. Her nose was straight and slender, her mouth was a mouth which looked as if it could cry. She had managed, without the benefit of dieting, to maintain a body which had evoked many a street-corner whistle in her native Puerto Rico. She was forty-two years old, and she had known what it was to be a woman, still knew, and she knew the happiness and sorrow of motherhood. She was not a tall woman, perhaps the one flaw which robbed her of true beauty, but she seemed exceptionally tall as she stood by the bed and looked down at her son.
"Alfredo?" she said.
He did not answer her. He lay on the bed full length, his face buried in the pillow.
"Alfredo?"
He did not look up. He did not turn his head from the pillow. "Mama, lee me alone," he mumbled. "Please."
"You have to listen to me," she said. "It is important that you listen to me."
"It don' make no difference wha' you say, Mama. I already know what I got to do."
"You must go to the church, is that what you must do?"
"Si."
"And they will harm you."
He sat up suddenly. He was a sixteen-year-old boy with his mother's fair complexion and wide, brown eyes. The slight fuzz of adolescence clung to his cheeks. His mouth, like his mother's seemed ready to twist into sorrow.
"I go to church every Sunday," he said simply. "I go today too. They cannot stop me."
"They cannot stop you, but they will harm you. Is this what they said?"
"Si"
"Who told you this?"
"The boys."
"Which boys?"
"Mama, this is not for you," Alfredo said plaintively. "This is somethin'…"
"Why? Why will they hurt you?"
Alfredo would not answer. He stared at his mother, but he remained silent.
"Why, Alfredo?"
The tears came suddenly. He felt them welling into his eyes, and he turned from her quickly so that she would not see him crying. He threw himself onto the bed again, his face buried in the pillow, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed. His mother touched his shoulder.
"Cry," she said.
"Mama, I am asha-"
"It is good to cry. Your father used to cry sometimes. It is not a sin for a man to cry."
"Mama, Mama, please, you don't understan'…"
"I understand that you are my son," Mrs. Gomez said with simple logic. "I understand that you are good, and that those who wish to harm you are bad. It is not for the bad ones to rule the streets, Alfredo. You say you must go to eleven o'clock mass, the way you always do. You say you must go, even though they will hurt you.
He sat up again, and the words sprang from his lips like a scream.
"
"You can't… turkey out?" she asked, puzzled.
"I cann be afray, Mama. I cann be turkey. You don' understan'. This is not somethin' you understan'. Please. Let me do what I got to do."
His mother stood by the bed, staring at him,'staring at her son as if somehow she did not know him any longer, as if somehow the infant she had held to her breast, the infant who had sucked of her milk was no longer someone she knew. His face, his language, even his eyes seemed distant and strange. She studied him as if trying to force the reconstruction of an earlier bond through the power of her eyes alone.
At last she said, "I have gone to the police."
"What!" he shouted.
"Why did you do that? You think the police will care abou' me? About Alfredo Gomez? The police are no good. Don' you know the police here in this neighborhood?"
"There are good police and bad police. I have gone to Frankie Hernandez."
"He iss the same as dee ress. Mama, why did you do this? Why cann you stay out of this?"
"Frankie will help you. He is from the
"But he's a cop now, a detective. He…"
"He grew up here in these streets. He is Spanish, and he helps his people. He will help you."
"You shoul* not have gone," Alfredo said, shaking his head.
"I have never been inside a police station in my life," Mrs. Gomez said. "Today is the first time. My son is in danger, and I went for help." She paused. "He said he would come.
I gave him the address. He said he would come to talk to you."
"I will tell him nothing," Alfredo said softly.
"You will tell him all that is necessary to tell him."
"Wha" time is it?" he asked suddenly.
"You have time yet."
"I got to dress for church."
"Not until you talk to Frankie Hernandez. He will know what to do."
"He will know what to do," Alfredo said. "Sure, he will know what to do," and the mockery in his voice was tinged with bitterness and inescapable sorrow.
"He will know what to do," Mrs. Gomez said confidently.
