





































[ng food, laughing- she didn't think 
s of other kids were standing along 
ly thinking just like her, "That could 
--,"and breaking off the thought then, 
while looking over at the parents of 

1e parents, barely knew the boy-she 
te and his nature didn't make him 
-because she usually got to know the 
nore attention within the group. 
n the face of one boy who was run­
r day, "You need to stop screwing 
m't you realize that your friend is 
for his body! He is not coming out 

:t," the boy responded. "He's just 
t him," said the boy. "I don't know 

ut alive!" she told him, intensifying 
tow some respect for his family over 
huddled together on the other side of 
: barricade. "They can see you acting 
ttom of the river!" she nearly shouted 
1is friends. 
i over. She didn't just cry for the boy 
:ried for the kids who watched their 
kids over there as she watched them, 

> refused to talk to anyone. They 
went under- never again to breathe 
•cence that had been barely hanging 
ld have before they went off to high 
1yway, spent it the way kids were 
the park, hanging out with friends. 
ying to understand how and why this 
uld have done differently or how they 
ced quietly to each other, each one of 
instead of the boy that loved to fish 
:Or years and years. They weren't out 
mg. How can something bad happen 
1t like that? 

::erpt) 

) 

GLENN LYVERS 
THE DAY I BECAME GUil TY 

I was another Mexican girl with a yellow sack for a dress - but 
with a dying father. Papa was lying in bed on a July Tuesday, under our 
best white sheets. We were too poor to take him to the doctor, and he 
did not want to go anyway. Mama prayed for him constantly, and every 
hour she would say, "Isabelle, go fetch cool water," and I went - so Papa 
would not have warm water by his bed. I remember Mama's black and 
gold rosary beads - the way she carried them all day, until her hands were 
cramped and looked twisted. She held them in one hand while she made 
tortillas with the other. Her lips would move silently while she pressed 
the dough, and I knew the prayers so well that I could follow along in my 
head, reading her lips while she prayed silently, the edges of her mouth 
turning downward. 

Before Papa got sick, our house was full of life. It was a faded­
orange stucco ranch, set so closely to the road that farmer's carts would 
block the porch. My friends would chase me from the street, right through 
our tiny living room and out the back door. We were like laughing el­
ephants, stampeding on the clattering wooden floors, and it seemed like 
our house belonged to everyone. Papa would yell at us to settle down, but 
we knew he was only pretending because he could not hide the smile on 
his face. He would shake his head at Mama and ask, "Did we ever act like 
that?" and she would answer, "Of course not!" with a mischievous grin. 
She said that she married Papa because he was the only person who ever 
made her smile - he was the center of our world, and when he became 
sick, so did everything else. 

My friends no longer came to play, and the house became 
still. I was tethered to that place, and to the stillness. In my frozen 
moments, sitting by Papa's bed, I noticed all the details of the house I 
had never seen before. Papa was a construction worker, and his house 
suffered with him, needing repairs. The yellow walls of his room 
had cracks, and I could see blue paint peeking through. I would sit 
by his bed, tracing those cracks with my eyes - they were like riv-
ers on a globe, cutting across the walls and I knew them all by heart. 
The window by his bed allowed a little air to move the curtains, and 
sometimes, they were all that moved. 

51 



It was my job to fetch ice from the church. It would be chipped from 
the block and Mama would gently rub it on Papa's lips, sometimes for hours. 
When I carried the ice home, my older brother Antonio would embarrass me 
by pointing out to his friends that my chest was not flat anymore. I hated him 
for that, and sometimes I wore extra clothes to hide my shame. But on this 
day, I would not be going for the ice. The rocks and baby cactus along the 
way were sharp, and my sandals were broken, so it was Antonio who had to 
go. I was happy that he had to do my work; he deserved it. But before he left, 
Antonio told Mama, "I think Papa needs cool water" - and then he laughed as 
I went to fetch it. 

Antonio and I loved our church with the type of faith only children are 
blessed with. Our church was called, Our Lady of Guadalupe, and she rested 
quietly atop a great wind-swept hill, until her bronze bell would ring, calling 
out, in deep rich tones which would echo off the houses and into our hearts. 
The people would ascend the hill in a procession of small groups, carrying 
their bibles and babies to pray. 

The hill itself was overgrown with green cactus and thick brush. 
Hidden within the brush were little blond flowers, brittle and intricate, 
which could only be appreciated while looking carefully. Antonio would 
gather the tiny flowers, using the delicate cuttings to mark the pages of 
the hymnals, reminding us all that the beauty of God was everywhere. 
The inspiring wooden doors of the church had no locks, and they would 
groan loudly as they opened, announcing each visitor to the great room. 
The sunlight filled our church; it would cascade from the windows 
above, spreading out like warm butter onto the toast-colored pews. 
It was no great cathedral, but Mama told us it was the greatest of all 
churches, because our church was not the great bell or the large crucifix 
above the altar, it was the singing of the people. The singing was like 
heaven, lifting our hearts to God - and when the choir sang Halleluiah, I 
felt like my feet would leave the ground. 

My Aunt Gabriela stopped by to check on us. She was a formi­
dable woman, powerful from working in the fields, but with the heart 
of an angel. She stared at Papa and lit candles for him, kissing his dark 
eyes and rubbing his cold feet. She warned Mama in hushed words that 
Papa was waiting to die. She said he was too proud to let anyone see 
him lose control and pass on - he would wait until he was alone. This 
made perfect sense to me because I saw Papa's pride. He fought in 
the village circle, upturning carts of red potatoes and breaking the axe 
handles of a vendor who overcharged me nine pesos. He told me it was 

52 

the food in my "Mexican mouth" he i 
it were nine pesos or nine thousand. I 
stood tall and firm with clenched fists 
I looked like a Chihuahua, small but ' 
it was his way, and even death would 
terms. 

Mama chimed, "Isabelle . .. " 1 

like a song, but instead, meant chores 
be left alone. She told me it was impc 
until she returned from the neighbors. 
pa's radio. I did as I was told, quietly 
about butterflies which we made up t< 
spot. He opened his eyes a little and I 
song Papa," I said, beaming - and he 
rhythm while I sang softly, and as we 

My song was interrupted b 
church, holding the ice with both 1 
my attention. I hesitated for a mon 
do. "Isabelle open the door!" Anto 
room for a moment - a moment w 

I pulled the door open witr 
Mama's anxious eyes. She pushed 
room. For a moment everything w 
clock ticking. I went to Papa's doc 
heard the sound of Mama taking a 
someone takes before they scream 
fists so tightly that her rosary brok 
while batteries and rosary beads h 

and pings, scattering all over the fl 
Mama's scream was liken 

"Isabelle! Isabelle! You killed you 
screams were so loud that they prn 
still filled with the perfect clarity c 
from Antonio 's hands with a crust 
Papa to just be asleep. "Please, Pa 
need you, Papa, I have your ice, I' 
Papa ... " Then Mama stood tall anc 
you to stay with him for five minu 
to do this one thing. You killed hir 
her eyes for me to see, and for a bi 



the church. It would be chipped from 
[ton Papa's lips, sometimes for hours. 
brother Antonio would embarrass me 
hest was not fl.at anymore. I hated him 
)thes to hide my shame. But on this 
he rocks and baby cactus along the 
>roken, so it was Antonio who had to 
ark; he deserved it. But before he left, 
ls cool water" - and then he laughed as 

1 with the type of faith only children are 
ur Lady of Guadalupe, and she rested 
til her bronze bell would ring, calling 
io off the houses and into our hearts. 
rocession of small groups, carrying 

n with green cactus and thick brush. 
~lond flowers , brittle and intricate, 
1ile looking carefully. Antonio would 
licate cuttings to mark the pages of 
ie beauty of God was everywhere. 
:hurch had no locks, and they would 
ncing each visitor to the great room. 
uld cascade from the windows 
er onto the toast-colored pews. 
. told us it was the greatest of all 
ot the great bell or the large crucifix 
' the people. The singing was like 
. nd when the choir sang Halleluiah, I 
mnd. 

y to check on us. She was a formi­
ng in the fields, but with the heart 
lit candles for him, kissing his dark 
warned Mama in hushed words that 
: was too proud to let anyone see 
)Uld wait until he was alone. This 
saw Papa's pride. He fought in 
red potatoes and breaking the axe 
:d me nine pesos. He told me it was 

;2 

the food in my "Mexican mouth" he fought for, and that it did not matter if 
it were nine pesos or nine thousand. I was proud too, so proud of Papa that I 
stood tall and firm with clenched fists when the police came. He said later that 
I looked like a Chihuahua, small but with the heart of a wolf. He was prideful, 
it was his way, and even death would not take him, unless it was on Papa's 
terms. 

Mama chimed, "Isabelle . .. " using a musical voice, which sounded 
like a song, but instead, meant chores. She explained that Papa was never to 
be left alone. She told me it was important, and that I was to stay with him 
until she returned from the neighbors. She was going to get batteries for Pa­
pa's radio. I did as I was told, quietly at first, and then I sang to Papa, a song 
about butterflies which we made up together on the bank of our secret fishing 
spot. He opened his eyes a little and I saw him smile. "You remember our 
song Papa," I said, beaming - and he gently smiled back. The clock ticked the 
rhythm while I sang softly, and as well as I could. 

My song was interrupted by Antonio. He'd returned from the 
church, holding the ice with both hands, kicking the front door to get 
my attention. I hesitated for a moment, looking at Papa, unsure what to 
do. "Isabelle open the door! " Antonio insisted loudly, so I left Papa's 
room for a moment - a moment which has haunted me for 60 years. 

I pulled the door open with a grin, but instead of Antonio, I saw 
Mama's anxious eyes. She pushed me aside roughly and ran to Papa's 
room. For a moment everything was so quiet that I could still hear the 
clock ticking. I went to Papa's door and saw her over his bed. Then I 
heard the sound of Mama taking a deep purposeful breath - the kind 
someone takes before they scream. She turned to me and clenched her 
fists so tightly that her rosary broke - and I watched in slow motion 
while batteries and rosary beads tumbled and bounced with little thuds 
and pings, scattering all over the floor in that horrific stillness . 

Mama's scream was like nothing I had heard before. She cried 
"Isabelle! Isabelle! You killed your Papa! You killed your Papa!" Her 
screams were so loud that they punched holes in me - holes which are 
still filled with the perfect clarity of her painful words. The ice dropped 
from Antonio's hands with a crushing thud. He started pleading with 
Papa to just be asleep. "Please, Papa, please just be sleeping, Papa, I 
need you, Papa, I have your ice, I'll never be a bad boy again, please, 
Papa ... " Then Mama stood tall and her cries hardened, "I just asked 
you to stay with him for five minutes and you did not love him enough 
to do this one thing. You killed him, you did this! " Her words were in 
her eyes for me to see, and for a bewildering moment, she did not even 

53 



look like Mama to me. 
Antonio began to shake Papa, pleading for him to wake up. "Please, 

Papa, wake up Papa, please, please ... " - his cries had turned into prideless 
desperate begging. I felt a sudden sickening in my stomach. This was all my 
fault and I ran mindlessly from the house. I ran all the way to the church and 
threw myself on my face in front of the altar, crying out, "I'm sorry, I'm so 
sorry, Ohh God, help me, I killed him ... I killed Papa!" 

Hours later, Aunt Gabriella came to the church. She carefully pulled 
the cactus needles from my crimsoned feet, wiping away the blood with her 
apron - it felt like a dream. I remember how slowly she lifted me from the 
floor, wrapping me up in her powerful arms and rocking me like a baby while 
my tears dotted her yellow linen blouse. She carried me all the way to her 
home, returning me to Mama the next day - after Papa's body was taken to 
the church. 

I wanted to talk to Mama and tell her I was sorry, and sometimes, I 
think she wanted to talk to me too, but we just couldn't. It became a wedge 
of sorrow, hanging thickly between us, sapping all our happiness until we 
did not even speak anymore. Two years passed like that, and a week after my 
14th birthday, I came home from school and found Mama on Papa's bed. She 
was lying there with her legs exposed and I knew she was dead - the way she 
was sprawled out, one fuchsia shoe dangling from her foot. I was surprised 
but I did not touch her; I simply backed away. For Mama there was no shak­
ing, or pleading - no screaming or tears. She was just dead - spread out on 
Papa's bed with the same look of unhappiness she wore every day. Later I felt 
guilty for not crying. I wondered what kind of daughter would not cry when 
she found her mother dead like that. I felt pathetic and sinful. 

At Mama's funeral I hid my face completely, not because I was wor­
ried people would see me cry, but because they might judge me for not crying 
at the funeral of my own mother. I barely noticed how plain the coffin was, 
the type the church gives those who have no money. I wondered if she was 
even alive when I left for school that day, because the silence of that morning 
was like every other. When the funeral ended, it started to rain. The sky had 
found tears for us all, and sent everyone scurrying back to their homes, leav­
ing only Antonio and his friends to fill in the hole. Aunt Gabriella said Mama 
died of a broken heart, and she took me in, leaving the ailing house to Anto­
mo. 

Living with Aunt Gabriella was strange at first. It was never awkward 
or silent. In the days that followed, she spoke with me every day, and in ways 
Mama never did. In time I came to understand that Aunt Gabriella talked 
with a purpose - she used our conversations to gently reopen my heart. After 
breakfast one morning, I was preparing to leave the house for school and the 
thought of Mama, dying on Papa's bed, took me completely by surprise. 

54 

I could picture her suffering, alone ir 
to help her. I suddenly felt profoundl 
and crashed like an ocean on my hea 
ing burst forth uncontrollably, and w 
again. I loved her, and missed her - ~ 

I have lived a lifetime since · 
might have passed between Mama ai 

the great sadness of that July Tuesda 
forgiven me, or if she really blamed 
blamed myself. The events of that fa 
and have lasted all of my life, becam 

INDIANA UNIVERSITY SOUTH I 
2nd Place - Fiction: The day I Becar 



, pleading for him to wake up. "Please, 
" - his cries had turned into prideless 
cening in my stomach. This was all my 
1use. I ran all the way to the church and 
le altar, crying out, "I'm sorry, I'm so 
... I killed Papa!" 
1me to the church. She carefully pulled 
j feet, wiping away the blood with her 
!r how slowly she lifted me from the 
1 arms and rocking me like a baby while 
se. She carried me all the way to her 
: day - after Papa's body was taken to 

tell her I was sorry, and sometimes, I 
t we just couldn't. It became a wedge 
>, sapping all our happiness until we 
.rs passed like that, and a week after my 
>ol and found Mama on Papa's bed. She 
and I knew she was dead - the way she 

mgling from her foot. I was surprised 
~d away. For Mama there was no shak­
rs. She was just dead - spread out on 
appiness she wore every day. Later I felt 
t kind of daughter would not cry when 
felt pathetic and sinful. 

ace completely, not because I was wor­
ause they might judge me for not crying 
~ely noticed how plain the coffin was, 
ave no money. I wondered if she was 
fay, because the silence of that morning 
tl ended, it started to rain. The sky had 
ne scurrying back to their homes, leav-
1 in the hole. Aunt Gabriella said Mama 
le in, leaving the ailing house to Anto-

as strange at first. It was never awkward 
e spoke with me every day, and in ways 
derstand that Aunt Gabriella talked 
;ations to gently reopen my heart. After 
tg to leave the house for school and the 
d, took me completely by surprise. 

)4 

I could picture her suffering, alone in the stillness of Papa's room with no one 
to help her. I suddenly felt profoundly sad and lonely. My emotions welled up 
and crashed like an ocean on my heart. The sorrow and tears I had been miss­
ing burst forth uncontroll11bly, and with them, I became my mother's daughter 
again. I loved her, and missed her - and knew it completely. 

I have lived a lifetime since then, and I'll never know what words 
might have passed between Mama and me, if we had been able to talk about 
the great sadness of that July Tuesday. I'll never know if she could have 
forgiven me, or if she really blamed me for Papa's death as much as I have 
blamed myself. The events of that fateful day took Papa, and then Mama -
and have lasted all of my life, because it was the day I became guilty. 

INDIANA UNIVERSITY SOUTH BEND CREATIVE WRITING AWARD 
2nd Place - Fiction: The day I Became guilty - by Glenn Lyvers 

55 


