Rosa No-Name

by Roger Bruner

  More villagers died the second week.

  Not all of the living sought death. Many were willing to wait for it. Although the braver villagers cared for themselves as best they could, determined not to give up until death overtook them, they knew they couldn’t survive indefinitely.

  Fewer than forty of the original ninety-seven villagers were still alive, and additional deaths were sure to take place almost daily until we were all gone.

  ~*~

  I had gone upstream to guzzle water and gather berries. Several of my neighbors had hiked with me, but we remained silent. We had nothing but our common plight to talk about, and no one wanted to discuss it anymore.

  I had just broken off a branch of berries for Anjelita, who had remained in the cave resting. The members of the other family had eaten their fill and were gathering extra berries to take back.

  No longer did they share anything with people outside their own family. They needed to minimize the trips upstream. Reaching the less cluttered area was still physically demanding.

  Catch-22 came to mind again. The villagers who failed to make the trek upstream to obtain nourishment would die sooner than later, yet the hike seemed to use up every bit of energy the berries’ nourishment provided.

  We had almost reached the caves when Anjelita’s voice called from the direction of the church. “Momma! Come quickly! They have brought supplies to keep us alive.”

  The other family and I tried to run, but we couldn’t have moved faster through the rubbish if our lives had depended on it. As soon as we rounded the corner of the church, we saw the huge tractor trailer that had pulled as close to the church as it could, pushing rubbish out of its way and then backing away, leaving enough of a clearing to unload. On the ground sat boxes of all sizes—a small fraction of the ones visible through the trailer’s open doors.

  “Here is food and water,” one of the drivers said in our language.

  “Don’t hesitate to take what you need,” added one of his helpers. “There’s plenty here. Enough for everyone.”

  One helper was mouthing something to the other one. He appeared to be asking, “Are these the only people who live here?”

  Our failure to tear into the boxes must have shocked and amazed the three strangers. They had no way of knowing how weak we were. Apparently mistaking our lack of strength for hesitation, one helper removed a knife from his pants pocket and flicked open a four-inch blade. In no time at all, the boxes on the ground stood open.

  Open and waiting.

  But we still couldn’t take in what was happening. I had read about mirages, but—in spite of the many cacti that grew in and around Santa Maria—we didn’t live in a desert. Were this truck and its contents, its Latino driver, and his two helpers just a mirage sent from the after-world to give us false hope—as our legends warned?

  “Momma, come get some food.” Anjelita reached into a box, pulled out a snack-sized package of cheese and crackers, and threw it to me. I failed to catch it. After stooping to pick it up, I stared at it in disbelief for just a moment before tearing into it and gobbling it down so fast I started coughing.

  Anjelita’s action dispelled the logjam of uncertainty, and the remaining villagers descended on the supplies like birds of prey on an animal carcass. The driver and his helpers kept unloading boxes from the truck. In our excitement, we found the strength to tear open other boxes without their help.

  “Where did these supplies come from?” I asked the driver when he had finished unloading the truck.

  “I can’t say. I honestly don’t know.”

  “Did Nikki send them?” Silly question. How would Nikki have known about our plight?

  “I don’t know anyone named Nikki. You’re talking about an American? A woman?” he asked with interest.

  “Yes, one with long blond hair. She is this much taller than me.” I raised my hand four inches to indicate her height.

  “No, I don’t know anyone who looks like that. Were you expecting something like this from her?”

  I shook my head. “Señor, how did you know what to bring or where to bring it? No one comes to Santa María, not even by accident.”

  “I received a phone call asking me to drive a truck here. The caller told me where to find it. He said I would find my pay beneath the cushion on the driver’s side along with a map and directions. He told me someone had recommended me for my skills and trustworthiness, but he didn’t say who.”

  I didn’t bother to ask anything else. He had told me everything he knew.

  I was still tearing open small packages of food and drinking bottled water when I realized I had been talking with my mouth full. That would have been rude in San Diego, but in Santa María, especially under these circumstances, no one would notice or care.

  It didn’t appear to faze the driver or his helpers. I offered each of them a bottle of water. “Thank you, Señora, but we have our own food and drink in the truck. We shouldn’t use any of yours.”

  “Momma! Momma!” Anjelita interrupted. Joy bubbled all over her face. “There are little boxes of juice…and clothes. There are blankets…even medical supplies.”

  Without knowing at first what I was saying, I whispered, “Thank you, God.” Then I realized—without understanding why—that I had said the appropriate thing.

  42

  The villagers perked up quickly after having their fill of food and drink, and—by consensus—we left the boxes where they were. Each family would come back for more whenever the need arose.

  The villagers asked me to handle the distribution of clothes and blankets, but I declined. “We don’t need to control these supplies that tightly. Not if every family agrees to take only what it needs. No hoarding. We have survived a humbling experience. Our common sufferings have rendered us equal.

  “At one time, some of you mothers sought greedily to get the best of everything for your children. There was excess then, and some of you took more than you needed. Now you must take only what you need for today. Tomorrow, do the same. That will assure a fair distribution of the supplies with each of you governing your own actions.”

  The villagers broke out in applause before I finished. I couldn’t keep from smiling. Not because they had honored me that way, but because they had accepted my advice without hesitation.

  When they lined up at the first box of clothing, I started to remind them about getting only what they needed for today. But since no one was pushing or shoving, I assumed they had taken my instructions to heart. So I remained silent.

  I joined Anjelita at the end of the line. We weren’t in a hurry. On getting closer, I smiled at seeing that the provider of these clothes had separated them by size and gender. I didn’t have to count the boxes to know we had enough to meet our needs for many tomorrows.

  From the clothing boxes, the villagers proceeded to the boxes of blankets.

  When I saw how many blankets these three men had brought, I yelled for attention. “Get one blanket per person first. There will probably be enough for seconds, but everybody must have one blanket before anyone takes a second one. Go to the end of the line again after you get your first blanket if you want another.”

  They grunted and nodded in agreement. Everyone was able to get a second blanket.

  “Rosa,” one of the older villagers said, “let’s set aside the remaining few blankets as spares. If a need arises in the future, they will be available on a first-come-first-served basis.”

  “Is that agreeable to everyone?” I asked. “That decision isn’t mine to make, but yours.”

  “Yes!”

  “Let the older folks store the leftovers for use as spares.”

  “What a wonderful idea.”

  No one objected.

  Once again, the entire village had united in making a major decision. Never again would the well-intentioned whims of a Council of Elders affect the villagers, who would rule themselves using a democracy of sorts and rely on the wisdom of people from every age group.

/>   As the villagers left the supply area with arms loaded down, I chanced to glance inside one of the boxes that had been overflowing with blankets moments earlier. What I saw grabbed my attention. A single blanket remained, one that no one had chosen. Not even the older adults who were stockpiling the leftovers.

  My amazement gave way to shock when I pulled it from the box.

  ~*~

  It was my old blanket! The one Tomás hadn’t wanted me to take to San Diego. That blanket was the only reminder of Santa María I hadn’t disposed of in San Diego. With Nikki’s help, I’d had it dry-cleaned and repaired so it looked like new—a very tired shade of new, I admit—and I’d put it in a drawer with mothballs. Nikki hadn’t brought it with my other things, though, and I hadn’t missed it.

  How it got here now might remain a mystery forever. But why hadn’t anyone taken it? Although it was old, it was usable.

  No matter how precious this blanket had been to me in the distant past, I didn’t want or need it now. It held too many memories I wanted to remain in the past.

  So I left it in the box in case someone came back later for an extra blanket.

  ~*~

  Several buses arrived an hour before dark, followed by two additional tractor trailers.

  I couldn’t count the number of people who got off the buses because they bunched up together, but there must have been over a hundred. All of them appeared to be in their upper teens—except for one boy who looked several years younger. He didn’t appear to fit in with the other young adults.

  Two men had come with them, also. One was probably just a few years older than me, but the other looked as old as the youngest of our surviving Elders. He looked stronger and healthier, though.

  Those two men must have been the leaders, although I had no idea what they were leading or how their convoy had ended up here. Because the buses and tractor-trailers had arrived within such a short time of the first truck, I assumed they were somehow related.

  The kids—from my perspective at almost twenty-nine, I didn’t think of teens as adults yet—wore clothes that were clean, but not in the best of condition. Must we clothe you from the supplies you have brought us? I swallowed a giggle.

  Probably not, I decided when I noticed one petite, very striking young woman with long wavy black hair, dark eyes, and a complexion darkened by nature rather than days at the beach. She might have been Latina, but I couldn’t be sure.

  Unlike the other girls, she was dressed exquisitely and expensively, although she appeared to have spilled something on what looked like a new white sweatshirt. Except for the African-American girl standing beside her, no one seemed to pay much attention to her.

  She looked miserable. Was she an orphan in the eyes of her group? Or maldita in some way?

  The leaders—I learned the next day that the older one was Rob and the younger one Charlie—approached the villagers and began speaking what I recognized as English. None of us could understand them.

  We replied in Spanish, but they couldn’t understand us, either. Some of the kids seemed to know little bits and pieces of Spanish, but none of them spoke fluently enough to do much good. And I hadn’t even learned enough English in America to describe what I knew as “limited English.”

  We gave up on oral communication and resorted to hand signs. Our mutually inadequate efforts brought frowns to their faces and to ours. Even if our hand signs improved while our visitors were in Santa María, we still wouldn’t be able to do more than exchange the simplest of ideas.

  Rob motioned for us to look inside the second tractor trailer. Spontaneous cheers broke out when we saw wood, tools, and other building supplies. Our visitors had even brought pre-built doors. They apparently understood our need for shelter, and we hoped they would help us with the construction.

  I thought I would never get Anjelita to sleep that night. Or myself, either. The prospect of rebuilding our homes kept us tossing and turning on the hard floor of our chilly cave for hours. At one point, Anjelita started giggling in the darkness for no apparent reason. I was so happy I couldn’t keep from giggling with her.

  The villagers were up early the next morning. So were Rob and Charlie, who spent at least an hour looking around the village, apparently assessing our situation.

  After that, Rob motioned for the villagers to come to the area where the warehouse had once stood. The two men had set up a long table—sheets of plywood over sawhorses—filled to overflowing with packaged food, bottled water, and fruit juice. They apparently wanted us to eat with them.

  We went through the line—our visitors encouraged us to go first—and began eating immediately after selecting what we wanted.

  Before they ate, however, Charlie closed his eyes, looked up, and began speaking in a very loud voice. Some of the kids joined hands, and most of them closed their eyes—how strange!—but all of them remained silent until he finished.

  We had kept on eating and chatting among ourselves while Charlie talked, confident that whatever he was saying didn’t involve us. Several of the teens whispered, “Shhh!” rather loudly, but we didn’t think they were talking to us.

  After breakfast, the two leaders made additional speeches, and then everyone sang. We didn’t know the words or the tune, but the villagers loved music, and this was the first time in nearly two weeks any of us had felt like singing.

  So we made up our own words and had a great time singing along with our visitors from America. Where else could they have come from?

  They divided us into what turned out to be work teams. One team was assigned to each family unit, and the family head led its team to the patch of ground that had previously been theirs.

  I thought we would never catch on to what they wanted us to do. I still don’t understand enough about carpentry or construction to describe the building process, but I watched closely and learned to imitate the steps they showed me.

  What I wouldn’t have given to have my old shack! The new one would probably be nicer, but it would look depressingly bare without books and bookcases. At least I could hang the photo of my girls on the wall…and the crucifix as well. Those two things would surely bring me at least some degree of comfort.

  43

  “Momma! Momma!”

  I was on my knees, hammering some boards together and trying to keep from hitting my thumb a third time. I turned to face Anjelita, eager to learn what she was so excited about. “Yes, child?”

  “I want you to meet my new friend, Miss Keem. I met her today while she was eating lunch, and I taught her my name and yours. She doesn’t speak Spanish, but she’s very smart, anyway.”

  Shifting my gaze from Anjelita to the American girl who stood almost hidden behind her, I recognized the petite, overdressed, Latina-looking girl I had noticed several evenings earlier.

  She stepped hesitantly to Anjelita’s side, where we could see one another better. She had dressed more appropriately for work today.

  But that wasn’t the most conspicuous difference. A bright purple cast covered her right arm. Her team members had written all over it.

  Although rumors had flowed about someone breaking an arm yesterday and having to return to San Diego to have it set, I hadn’t learned who the victim was. Now I knew the rumor was true and who the unfortunate girl was.

  I was uncertain whether to shake the hand of Miss Keem’s unbroken left arm or to hug her—many of the young Americans seemed to be huggers—or just to wiggle my fingers timidly, smile, and say, “Hi.”

  No matter how bold I had grown during the preceding twelve years, I felt surprisingly shy about meeting this girl. She looked as hesitant and fearful of me as I was of her.

  Despite my four years in San Diego, Nikki was the only “real” American I had grown close to. Perhaps I was the first Mexican Miss Keem had met.

  My indecision proved moot when Anjelita spoke again. “Miss Keem is my new, big sister. Like me, she has a disability of the arm.” I couldn’t keep from grinning.

  �
�I have pointed her and her arm out to the other children and told them, ‘Miss Keem is not maldita because of her arm. Her friends accept her. So I am not maldita, either.’ And do you know what, Momma? The children have already started paying more attention to me. Maybe they will eventually like me again.”

  What wonderful news! During the two weeks since the black winds of the tornado came through Santa María, the surviving children had begun to taunt Anjelita again. Without her big sister to stand up for her, Anjelita had suffered nearly unbearable abuse.

  I wondered whether I should point out that Miss Keem’s arm was only broken and would mend in a relatively short time. But I dared not interfere with her emotional healing.

  I wouldn’t have said anything anyhow. I couldn’t. Not after looking more closely at the face of Anjelita’s new “big sister.” Her resemblance to Alazne was so remarkable I almost turned away to hide my reaction. I thought I was seeing a ghost.

  I didn’t mean to be rude, but I barely managed to mumble, “Anjelita, I am glad to meet your friend, but you two must let me get back to work.” I was too shocked to say more.

  Anjelita and Miss Keem worked together the rest of the day.

  Each time I saw them, I had to close my eyes and rub my face with my sleeve to stop the tears from flowing. Several days would pass before I could look at Miss Keem without weeping silently. And several additional days before I could display any signs of acceptance, affection, and—eventually—a desire for her friendship.

  Miss Keem must have wondered what was wrong with me. Anjelita asked repeatedly why I hadn’t been nicer to her new sister, but I couldn’t bear to admit the way her similarity to Alazne had affected me.

  ~*~

  Most of the village needed clearing before construction could begin, but the teams soon removed enough trash from the foundation areas of the houses to begin. Several of the Americans had also cleared a narrow path to the church door.