More Than Allies

by Sandra Scofield

  They sat companionably at the polished round table, both of them facing the windows so they could look at the hills and watch morning come on. Maggie said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She couldn’t believe all the years that had gone by. She still felt, often, like a child, though she was twenty-eight and twice a mother herself.

  Polly said, “You’re stronger than you know, dear.” She got up and pulled out canisters and bowls and the beaters. “I might as well make something hot for breakfast,” she said. “Jay-Jay likes muffins so much.”

  Maggie watched her work, enjoying the rhythm of her movements, the crack of the eggs, the whirr of the beaters, the sound of the spatula scraping the sides of the bowl. Polly put two pans in the oven, then turned and leaned back against the counter.

  “I’m going to have a foster baby soon,” she said. “Maybe by the end of the week.”

  Maggie felt as if Polly had smacked her. Polly helped with the children—did as much as Maggie, really—and was a respite caretaker for a hospice. She was on committees at the Grange and church. Why did she need a baby?

  Polly’s fist pressed against her breast. “It’s like a little cry that tugs at me right here, babies being born these days to mothers who can’t take care of them. Babies sick before they’re even born.” She smiled. “It’s vain of me, isn’t it? To think they need me? To think I could do something important, taking care of one of them.”

  Maggie glanced at the clock by the oven. It was almost seven. “I’m supposed to sub this afternoon. The teacher’s going to a drug conference.” She yawned.

  “Maybe you should call in,” Polly suggested.

  “I don’t think they want to get subs for their subs,” Maggie said. “Maybe if I got a little nap.”

  “I can get Jay off to school,” Polly said. She didn’t look nearly as tired as Maggie felt. “And Gretchen will be up after a while. She can watch Stevie while I sleep.”

  “That’s great, about the baby,” Maggie said. “Lucky baby.”

  “Maybe Stevie will be pleased, too,” Polly said. “Maybe she’ll feel big with an infant in the house.”

  Maggie gave Polly a hug. “Sorry about last night. The false alarm. I really was scared.”

  “Why, so was I! There are no false alarms with children. Worry is always real.”

  Maggie nodded, and left. She thought she was just beginning to understand what Polly meant. Worry seemed to be the main verb in Maggie’s life these days. She worried about her children, about money, about her moribund marriage, she even worried about politics. She would be depending on Polly until one of them was dead.

  San Marcos, Texas

  Querida,

  You haven’t written to say if the money I sent you arrived, and whether you will come here, at least to visit, as my mama has written so many times to beg you, and now I too plead. It was a wonderful feeling to write out a money order to you, out of the very first money I earned since I was released. I am working with mi hermano Ricky, making the wheels of asadero cheese I missed so much these past years.

  You don’t know what I have suffered, I don’t want you to know, and I promise not to talk about it to you or Gus, except to answer questions if they come up, because I don’t want to pretend something didn’t happen when it did. My son will soon be a man. Don’t you think I could grow up, too? I know I wasn’t good to you, and I know I was an idiot, a true fool not to be serious and not to be afraid enough of the consequences of temper and bad luck and bad judgment, but if I did or did not deserve what I got (and I think I didn’t, but it is a waste to be bitter), still I chose right, to become a better person and a better chicano, instead of a hard man. I am strong now, inside and out, although my mama likes to fuss over me like I only left last year when I was fifteen, and I am smarter, too, because I know to pay attention, and besides, didn’t I do a year of college courses to have something to show for all the time?

  I understand why you have drawn around you a shawl of silence and privacy, and I do not criticize you, but I ask, how is your attitude—that you must fit in, although only on the edges—any less fatalistic than the poorest indio’s? If you do not yearn, and reach. If you do not believe you are in control of your life, if you do not think you can see Gus grow strong and well and happy, with some fair share of bounty, then you, who has cut herself off from her own people, are the oppressed peasant.

  It is beautiful here. What a fool I was, a crazy boy, to leave it, but if I had not, I would never have known you, I would never have had Gus, life has its way. But I see now how lucky I am, because my family has made a good life here. There is hope here. Land for the family, independent and good work, neighbors and friends, and oh, the cows and goats and chickens. You and I should be together. There is a reason you have never divorced, and now you must think what the reason is. Maybe it is only Gus, and not love, but Gus is a reason. Maybe all I can hope for is to be with him, and maybe only time to time, but I tell you what I want, to be a family. Not overnight, but in time.

  I ask you with humility and love, be open. See for yourself and do not feel pushed. Se lo pido de corazón: perdón.

  Recibe un abrazo y muchos besos para ti y mi hijo—

  Gustavo

  p.s. Send photos

  Dulce pulled the heavy spread off the bed and piled it on a chair, then began stripping off the linens. You could go for weeks, every room perfectly routine, and then there would be one like this. Right in the cleft between the pillows was a used condom. One of the pillowcases was stained—a bloody nose?—and all the trash in the room—papers, magazines, cups, disposable razors, tissues, bottles and cans—was on the floor. The trash baskets were pristine. The towels were on the bathroom and dressing room floors, sopping, and the corner of the bathroom mirror had a lipstick drawing of what Dulce assumed was meant to be a penis. They had had a good time. Lovers, you supposed. Married people didn’t act like this.

  By noon she had done the nine rooms assigned her. The housekeeper told her they would be able to put her on a five-day schedule in June, for the summer. She would earn some sick time, some vacation time, too; they let her carry the sick days season to season, while they laid her off during the winter, and she always took the vacation pay at Christmas. She said that would be fine. She didn’t know how to be enthusiastic; the housekeeper didn’t expect it, anyway. They knew she’d show up every morning, she’d do the work, she’d never complain. She was surprised to hear they would give her a thirty-cent an hour raise in June, too. She had worked for the motel three years; this was her second raise.

  She drove home slowly, uneasy about the car, which had been overheating the last few days if she went above twenty miles an hour. At home, she ate a cheese sandwich, then showered and changed into a skirt and sweater. She walked over to the grade school. Her son Gus was in fourth grade, in the “tri-level classroom,” a melange of children from grades three through five. The principal had recommended the placement last year, because there was so much range in Gus’ skills—he was a whiz in math, a little behind in reading, and practically illiterate in his writing. She explained that there would be a lot more flexibility in Gus’ grouping for instruction, and less pressure or possible embarrassment about working in skill groups “perceived to be below grade level.” Dulce thought a little pressure might be exactly what Gus required, but she always lost her tongue at school, even though everybody there was as nice as they could be. Besides, she assumed they knew more about teaching than she did, though she hoped she knew Gus best. The teacher, Jack, said she shouldn’t worry. He thought Gus would read and write just fine when he was ready. He was nine years old; how ready would he have to be? Sometimes she thought she ought to take away his colored pencils and pens; he drew endlessly, and read comic books, though with better weather, and his friendship with Hilario, he was outdoors a lot more than he used to be.

  She went into the school through the cafeteria, then cut over to let the office know she was in the building. As soon as the secr
etary saw her, she smiled and gave her a wave. Parents with children in the “Tri-L’s” were expected to put in time in their children’s classrooms. Most wanted to know everything that was happening; she was always getting notes and flyers about projects and concerns. Should the children raise money for a garden or send cash to Somalia? Who would go on the camping trip to the Redwoods with them, and who had tents? Was Jack stepping over some boundary when he had them do visualization exercises before creative writing? Should the children be allowed to bring candy in their brown bag lunches? And why were they required to take standardized tests like the regular classroom students?

  At the classroom door, she scanned the room, looking for the teacher, and for her son. Jack was under the loft with a couple of kids, his head bent over their work, his hair sweeping his cheek. He was totally absorbed, though the room was swarming with activity. That was the first thing she had noticed about him, his ability to attend wholly to a child or a group. Above him, on the loft, which was piled with huge pillows, two boys were wrestling while a girl lay stretched out on her stomach, reading. At the table in the corner, a mother was sewing something; the old machine whirred and clacked, and two little girls hovered over her, chattering and bouncing. A boy was cleaning out the gerbil cage; the trash can by him was overflowing, and spilling onto the floor. Nowhere was anyone seated at a desk; in fact, there were no desks in the room, only tables, but no one was seated there, either. A couple of kids lay flat on their backs on a rug, holding books up over their heads. There was no sign of Gus.

  A tiny girl—could she really be a third grader?—came up and took Dulce’s arm. “Lechuga,” she said. “Qué bonita.” Obviously, the eager child, with her tiny Spanish vocabulary, knew whose mother Dulce was. Dulce knelt down beside her and said hello. In slow careful Spanish, she asked her name. The little girl’s eyes squinched with effort, and finally she blurted out her age, “siete.” She threw herself against Dulce and hugged her. Dulce gave her a squeeze, and stood up.

  “Do you know where Gus is?” she asked.

  “In the gym. They’re practicing for Spanish night.”

  “Ahh,” Dulce said. She knew what she was here for, then. Jack had asked her in September if she would tutor the kids in Spanish, but she declined. She wasn’t a teacher; she didn’t even have a high school diploma. At that time there was no one to whom she even spoke Spanish; only since Hilario’s family came to town had she any call for it. So she had shown up a couple of times a month and listened to children read, or helped with crafts projects. In the beginning, Gus had stayed near her, but in the last couple of months he had made sure he had something to do unrelated to her. She noticed that most kids were like that when their parents came.

  She walked slowly to the gym. Along the hallway she looked at children’s drawings posted on the walls. Outside one classroom was a long stretch of butcher paper on which the kids had drawn an underwater scene: fish and odd, unidentifiable creatures, plants with wavy tendril arms. The next stretch of drawings were copies of famous paintings; she recognized Van Gogh’s sunflowers, and the Midwestern farm couple with the rake and stern faces.

  In the gym she saw Gus right away. He and Hilario and a third student were working with a video camera in the back of the room. She saw him see her, and she smiled and waved. He nodded. His hands were busy with the camera.

  At the front, on the stage, some kids were practicing their skit in front of a makeshift set constructed from a refrigerator carton. One child was wearing a cape, and another had a frilly hat on his head. She approached them, and Jay, with whom Gus used to spend most his time, called out, “Oh good, it’s Dulce!” which made her relax and remember she was the adult and these were children.

  They were practicing the story of Little Red Riding Hood. “Qué dientes tan grandes tienes!” they recited. She listened to the skit all the way through, slightly amused. They had been working on Spanish all year with one of the fathers, a pharmacist who went somewhere in Central America every winter for a while. Also, there was a teacher who came in once a week to drill the kids on vocabulary; Gus liked to recite the names of fruits and vegetables, and would sometimes blurt out, “Hace sol hoy,” or the like.

  The students hit the sounds of “d” and “t” too hard, and they wandered in and out of the proper ending on the word for grandparent, but Dulce couldn’t imagine that anyone would care or even notice except her and the Spanish teacher, who couldn’t be everywhere at once. Dulce praised the kids and went through the skit again. She suggested that they speak a little louder. Their parents would want to hear everything. They said they needed to work on the set. They were drawing the grandmother’s window on the cardboard. Dulce went to see what her son was doing.

  The kids were taping family stories. Hilario had first told his in Spanish, then, with help, had written an English version and memorized it. “You like to hear?” Hilario asked now. Dulce agreed she would. They couldn’t play the tape—there was no TV set up in the gym—but Hilario was eager to do his recitation. She sank to the floor, and some of the kids from the stage sat down around her, while others wandered off, back to the classroom.

  Hilario stood up straight. He was a full head taller than the next tallest child in the class. He should have been in sixth or seventh grade, but with his poor English and lack of school experience, the middle school counselor had sent him over to the Tri-L class, where he would have fewer demands and a relaxed structure. It was true that he had learned a lot since his February arrival, but Dulce couldn’t help wondering where they would put him next year, and just how far behind he really was. She would have thought he would work twice as hard to catch up, but he was enjoying being King Cock in grade school. For all practical purposes, Gus had a crush on him.

  Jay, who had been one of the chorus reciting the wolf’s lines in the skit, settled down close to Dulce. She reached out and put her arm on his shoulder. He moved in even more.

  Hilario said, in his broken English, but rather better than Dulce would have thought he could, that his story was about something that happened to his mother when she was a little girl. She and her sister had gone to feed the pigs inside a fenced area. Her sister fell off the fence and into the mud with the pigs. She screamed, and when she jumped back up, she had pulled her hand inside the sleeve of her blouse, so that Hilario’s mother, Lupe, could not see it. Lupe thought that a pig had bitten off her sister’s hand, and she ran back to their mother shouting, “The pig ate her hand!”

  The kids who had gathered around for Hilario’s telling clapped, somebody whistled. Hilario beamed. Jay had disappeared.

  A bell rang. It was time for recess. Dulce told Hilario she liked his story. She asked about his family. He went back to Spanish. His father was still in Mexico, where he had gone because his mother was sick. They had received a letter.

  He looked through the windows at the torrent of children pouring onto the playground. “Go play,” Dulce told him in English. She looked around, but Gus was gone.

  Then she realized there was a commotion in the front of the gym. She ran back up to the stage to find that the “set” had been knocked down and trampled, and that several boys were scuffling. She ran around to go on the stairs up to the stage. She could hear someone screaming. It turned out to be Jay. It took several moments to figure out what had happened. He had found a can of red spray paint on a shelf at the back of the stage, and had sprayed it on the back of the set. When another boy saw the paint, he lunged for it and Jay sprayed his shirt. Now there was paint on the floor, too, and in the scuffle Jay had hurt his cheek. Kids wandering through the gym clustered at the foot of the stage to see what was going on. Some of them were giggling. She heard one of the older boys in Gus’ room tell Jay, “You’re going to get it!”

  She didn’t know what she was supposed to do. She was afraid she would be blamed—rightly, perhaps, but what could she have done? She couldn’t be in two parts of the large room at the same time.

  A girl came up and told
her there shouldn’t have been the paint on the stage. Very primly she informed her, “Dangerous things are supposed to be locked up.” Dulce, recognizing budding authority, asked the little girl if she would go get the kids’ teacher. He was there in two minutes. He apologized to Dulce. He said he hadn’t realized that many children were out of the room. He studied the paint on the stage floor; it looked like red dust. He seemed quite anxious about it. Glancing over sternly at the kids, now lined up mutely along the stage front, seated with their legs dangling over the edge, he said, “You shouldn’t have to worry about behavior when you come.” Dulce wondered what he would say to Jay, but when she glanced down the row of youngsters, she didn’t see him there at all. As she left the room, she heard the others shouting their explanations; Jay’s name rang out like a bell, over and over. Jay did it. It was Jay’s fault. What are you going to do to Jay?

  She stopped in the girls’ bathroom. Little girls were shuffling and yelling. She thought she saw feet under all the stalls. She waited a moment for one to open, then went in. In the toilet was one of the longest turds she had ever seen in her life. She stepped right back out, and saw the girl who had come out of that stall, and before she had thought about it, she reached out and grabbed her arm.

  The child looked up in astonishment, and several other girls around her stared, suddenly quiet. Dulce felt her temples pounding, but stumbled on. She pulled the girl over and pointed at the toilet bowl. “You left it nasty! If you don’t flush that, who do you think will?” The girl was wide-eyed and quiet. The other girls giggled. Dulce let go, embarrassed at her outburst, and the girl rushed over to flush the toilet, then ran out, followed by her friends, now jabbering shrilly.

  Dulce leaned back against the wooden door of the stall. She had an insane urge to giggle. She couldn’t think what had gotten into her. Maybe when you have scrubbed out as many toilets as she had, you lose patience with carelessness. Maybe she was getting old and minding too much business.