Elena Navarro

Spouse of Wendell Proctor, married into the Proctor (Yorkist) line from the House of Navarro.

Elena Navarro was born in 1932 at San Antonio, in the King William district, Texas, and lived seventy years as a laundry supervisor, a woman of the House of Navarro, the Tejano ranching families who guarded the San Antonio missions, and of the White Ledger by marriage. She was the only child of the bookkeeper and slayer Catalina Navarro, The Flint Lamp, and of a father whom the family papers do not name. In 1962 she married the Air Force mechanic Wendell Proctor, and they raised three children, Dennis Navarro Proctor, born in 1963, Loretta Proctor, born in 1966, and Travis Proctor, born in 1974, of whom the last two became slayers. She was not called, was not a hunter and was not a vampire slayer, and her mother, who had been all three, did not want her to be. She died in 2002 of a sudden collapse, aged seventy, at the end of a shift. The Navarros remember her as the supervisor who ran the linen of a great hotel through a world's fair and who kept two generations of the family's hunters, her mother's and her children's, in clean shirts and honest accounts. Her first bed was a drawer. Her mother, who worked at a German merchant's counting house on Commerce Street and lived in a rented cottage in King William, behind a mansion, put the baby in the bottom drawer of a ledger cabinet, lined with a folded counting-house apron, and kept it open, with the cabinet in the corner, for the first six months of her life. The clerks, who thought it an odd arrangement, brought her pencils. By three she could count to a hundred. By six, in the school on the river, she was sitting under her mother's desk among the account books, with a stub of a pencil and a slate, and by eight she was reading the day's cash book aloud to the old German partner, who said that he had never had a better clerk. Her mother, who did not often say what she felt, left a note under a cloth on the supper plate every night that she went out at dusk. The note said where she was and what time she would be back. The child kept every one. The Flint Lamp was never at home in the evenings, and Elena, who was a quick and silent girl, learned at an early age to leave the lamp lit. She knew what her mother was. It came to her in the way that such knowledge comes to the children of the Ledger, in a long indirect accumulation of what was never said, in the way her mother's coat hung, the weight of her bag, the hour that the key turned. When she was twelve she asked. Catalina, who had been waiting for the question for six years, sat her down at the kitchen table, told her the truth in about twenty words, and said that she was not going to be asked to do any of it. A debt, she said, need not be inherited. She wanted her daughter to be a bookkeeper, a good Catholic and a person who could sit in a plaza and enjoy it. She kept the books for three years, from fifteen, on Commerce Street, in her mother's old counting house, and she was a very good one. She was also bored. She said so, at eighteen, to her mother, in the plain direct way of the family, and said that she had seen what a laundry did and that she would like to try. Catalina, who was a fair woman, looked at her daughter for a full minute and said that she had better start at the bottom. She started at the mangle of a laundry that served the hotels along the river, among the steam and the starch and the long white lines of sheets, and she found that it was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She was a girl who had spent her life among columns of figures. The laundry was full of people. It had a forewoman who sang, a boy who delivered, a boiler man with a parrot, and a hundred and forty women who talked, and she took to it as a duck takes to a pond. She was a supervisor at twenty-eight, in 1960, when the manager, an anxious man in a brown suit, found that she was the only person in the building who could tell him, without looking, how many pillow slips were in the house. She ran the sorting room. She kept the laundry's books with the exactness of a counting house and the warmth of a kitchen, and she was known to every maid, every night porter and every bellboy on the river. She also, being a Navarro, noticed things. A sheet that came in from a certain room with a stain that was not wine, a collar that had been washed and stained again within the day, a guest who did not leave a mark on the pillow. She did not ask. She wrote it in the margin of the book, in a small figure, and she told her mother, who, as it happened, had been standing in the plaza outside. She met Wendell Proctor at the Mission of San José, in the autumn of 1961, at the funeral of a Proctor cousin, where he sat in the row behind her in an Air Force dress uniform and could not keep his eyes off the back of her hat. He was twenty-four, a tall, slow, soft-spoken young man from the Westside, the second child of the compositor Juan Navarro and the engineer Harriet Proctor, who had joined the Air Force as a mechanic at the Kelly field and who was not called. She was twenty-nine. She said afterwards that she had known by the end of the sermon, because he had stood up to let an old woman pass and then sat down again with an expression of a man who has done a thing wrong. They were married in the Mission of San José in 1962, with the Navarro uncles on one side of the aisle and the Proctor cousins on the other, and Catalina, who was fifty-eight, in a dark blue dress, said afterwards that it was the only time in her life that she had seen the two houses stand together without a ledger. They set up near the base, in a frame house on the south side with a porch and a view of the runway, and the Air Force fed them with the sound of engines for forty years. Wendell worked on the big transports at Kelly from the day he was posted to the day he retired, in the engine shops, in a cap and a pair of oil-black hands, and came home every evening at four. Dennis was born in 1963, Loretta in 1966 and Travis in 1974. In the Vietnam years, when the base ran day and night and the cargo planes went out full and came back, Elena, who had her own shift and a husband on another, brought up the children between the two, in a house that smelled of starch and jet fuel, and nobody ever once found a sock out of its drawer. HemisFair came in the spring of 1968, when the city made over its centre for a world's fair, with a tower and a convention hall and a new river, and the hotels along the river were full of visitors for six months. Elena, who was thirty-five, had the linen. She ran the laundry on three shifts, with a staff of a hundred and sixty, for twenty-four weeks, and returned every sheet on the day it was promised. She was given a plaque. She hung it in the sorting room, behind a pile of towels, where it stayed. She was also, in the same year, the person to whom her brother-in-law Raymond Proctor Navarro, who had just been called, brought his first torn coat. She mended it, and washed it, and said not a word, and he said afterwards that she was the only person in the family who could take a bloodstain out of drill. Catalina was killed in a car accident in the spring of 1976, on the road home from the mission, and left her daughter a small pocket ledger with the last entry, dated that evening, which said that the plaza had been quiet. Elena kept it in her bag. She gave it, in the end, to Loretta, who as a young woman had taken to standing in the doorway of the bank at dusk, and to Travis, a decade later, who read it. They were both, in their time, called. Her mother, she observed, had not been wrong about the debt. She had simply not reckoned on the interest. Dennis, who was never called, became a lineman for the city electric utility, and was the one who drove her to Mass. The oil bust of the middle eighties closed half the hotels, and she took the surviving laundry, which served a hospital, in her stride. She retired in 1997. The Air Force closed Kelly in 2001, and Wendell, who had given it forty years, took the news with a long silence and went out to look at the runway. Elena died the following spring, in 2002, at seventy, in the middle of a Thursday shift, in the sorting room, with a pile of clean sheets in her arms. She said, to the girl beside her, that she had a pain in her head. She sat down on a stack of towels and did not get up. The girl, who was nineteen, told the family that every sheet was folded. Wendell outlived her sixteen years. Elena Navarro is remembered in the Navarro family as the supervisor of the river laundry, the child of the counting house who chose the steam and the people over the columns of figures. In the Slayerverse she stands for the ones who were not called and who never complained of it, who kept the linen, the books and the porch light for the hunters in their family, and who showed that a clean sheet is a kind of fortification.