All You Get Is Me

by Yvonne Prinz

“Well, if it is them, they’ve got a point, don’t you think?”

  “Depends on how you look at it. If Tomás wins, it’s a victory for all undocumented workers. They don’t do themselves any favors by staying invisible. They need a voice. People need to know that they’re here to stay and that we couldn’t survive without them.”

  “And if he loses?”

  My dad shrugs.

  “If he loses he could get deported, couldn’t he?”

  “It’s possible. But that’s always a possibility. Even without the lawsuit.” My dad looks down at the floor. “Tomás knows the risks. I was clear about them. I’ll do whatever I can to keep him in the country. Don’t you think he deserves some compensation for what happened?”

  I don’t answer that. “Are you using Tomás to make a statement?”

  “Of course not. I’m just helping Tomás access what he’s entitled to. You know that.”

  “What did Reynaldo tell you to do?” I ask.

  “Reynaldo is coming from a different place. He doesn’t want the grape pickers to be afraid to cross the border. He wants a better life for the farmworkers but he doesn’t want to risk anything. You can’t make change without stirring things up.”

  “So he was against it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t make Tomás your sacrificial lamb just to prove a point, Dad. That’s not fair.”

  “Have some faith, Roar. Ned’s a damn good lawyer. He’s the first guy I’d call if I was in trouble.”

  “You are in trouble. Someone just threatened you.”

  My dad looks me in the eye. “Do you think I’d be scared off that easily?”

  It seems that no matter what I think or how torn I am about it, this machine has been set in motion. I look at my dad with his head bent over his work again, his jaw set, like it always is, with determination. I do have faith in him and in Uncle Ned too. I just hope they’re doing the right thing. I hope that no one gets hurt or even killed before all of this is over. Losing Sylvia was enough.

  I flip through the big pile of mail that I just set down on the kitchen table next to the crumpled coffee-can money. Underneath a stack of flyers advertising things we never buy rests a big glossy photography magazine called FOTO. It’s addressed to me but I didn’t order it or pay for it. The first time it showed up, I thought it was a free trial offer or something, but it showed up again the next month and now here it is again. It’s published in New York and it’s filled with cutting-edge photos taken by dark, brooding photographers with names like Freundlich and Gustav. It also features articles on the art of taking photos, developing techniques, and reviews on new equipment. The back pages of the magazine are filled with ads for esteemed East Coast photography schools and announcements for photography exhibits at chic galleries in Soho and Chelsea. I flip through it quickly. I’m about to close it when something catches my eye: It’s an ad for a photography contest, nondigital only. I skip the rules and go right to the prize. It’s ten thousand dollars. I carry the magazine up to my room and close the door.

  I’ve never entered my work in a contest before. This one seems pretty straightforward. You can submit up to three photos in the color category and the same for black-and-white. The contest closes in mid-August and the entry fee is twenty dollars. I get on my computer and go to the website that has the entry form. I download it and print it out. I fill in my name, address, and phone number. When I come to the part where you’re supposed to fill in your age, I stop, think about it, and write twenty-one.

  It takes me an agonizing hour to choose the photos I’ll send in. After spreading out all my best work into categories on my bed and eliminating anything I’m not wild about, I still can’t see my quilt through all the photos. I finally narrow it down to six. For the three color photos I settle on a series from the Buddhist monastery. Two of them are the monks working in the garden, and one of them is a young smiling monk eating a pink radish. The composition is good and the colors are brilliant. For black-and-white, I choose a series from the rodeo parade. One rodeo queen, one rodeo clown who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, and a tiny highland dancer in a kilt and kneesocks and bouncing ringlets, frowning as she concentrates on her dance steps. I put the photos between cardboard and put them in my backpack with the completed entry form.

  On a whim, I open the magazine to the inside cover and find the 1-800 number to call for subscriptions. I find the phone and dial.

  “National Magazine Distribution, can I help you?” Clearly I’m not calling New York; this woman has a southern accent as thick as pancake batter.

  “Hi, um. I have a magazine subscription that I got as a gift and I was wondering if I could find out who sent it to me.”

  “What’s your name, hon?”

  “Aurora Audley.”

  “Can you spell that?”

  I spell it and I hear the clicking of a computer keyboard.

  She asks for my zip code.

  “Is it FOTO magazine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the gift was anonymous but the bill went to Key West, Florida. I probably shouldn’t even be telling you that.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “You have a nice day now.”

  I hang up the phone.

  Key West, Florida? I don’t know even one person in the entire state of Florida. Who could have sent this to me and why?

  I look at my bedside clock. Storm is picking me up in half an hour. I’ll get her to stop at the post office so I can buy a money order and an envelope for my photos. I take a twenty-dollar bill out of a jewelry box that I keep my work money in and stuff it in the front pocket of my backpack.

  I spoke to Forest this morning while my dad was outside. He said that his mom seemed to be doing better. She’d been served with the papers earlier and it was like she’d been expecting them. She calmly called her insurance company and read them the details over the phone. After that she called a locksmith and asked him to come over and change the locks on the doors, and then she called a divorce lawyer, the same one she’d used when she and his dad divorced. After she discussed filing for divorce with her lawyer, she called Jerry’s cell phone and left a message that all of his belongings would be on the front porch by five p.m. and he could pick them up anytime after that. Then she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table to read the newspaper.

  It appears that Connie Gilwood has a new outlook.

  I hear Storm’s scooter as I’m digging through a pile of clothes looking for something clean to wear. I settle on sort of clean cutoffs and a wrinkled tank top that used to be a T-shirt until I cut off the sleeves. I slip into my clogs and grab my backpack. In the unlikely event that my dad actually talks to Storm, I don’t want the conversation getting around to all the fun things we’ve been doing lately that we actually haven’t. Storm isn’t good at the small details.

  By the time I get outside, Storm is already engaged in her ongoing flirtation with Steve. She has him bent over looking at the tires of her scooter as she gives him a full-on view of her cleavage emerging from a pale blue halter top. Her hair is loosely piled on her head and she’s wearing short shorts and espadrilles with stacked four-inch heels. Her legs look nine feet long.

  “I think you’re fine, I don’t see anything.” Steve stands up, wiping his hands on his pants.

  “Hey, Roar, I was just telling Steve here how I hit a rock on the way over and I was worried I might have punctured a tire. He was nice enough to take a look.” She says it in her sultry “boys only” voice, smiling at Steve.

  A look at what? Your breasts?

  I smirk at Steve, who smirks back. I get on Storm’s scooter behind her.

  At Millie’s I watch Storm rip the tops off three packs of sugar and pour them into her coffee.

  “So, Doo-wayne is history,” she says, stirring her coffee.

  “Doo-wayne?”

  “Yeah, the cowboy. Man, what an idiot. I left that stupid gold horseshoe neckl
ace in the ashtray of his truck. It was turning my neck green.”

  I notice that today she’s wearing a gold chain with a cameo pendant hanging on it, another family jewel “borrowed” from her mom’s jewelry box.

  “Why the change of heart?”

  “Well, as I mentioned before, he’s an idiot.”

  “Can you be a bit more specific?”

  “Turns out he has a girlfriend in Stockton and a BABY! Can you believe that?”

  “No!” I do my soap-opera shocked face. “How’d you find out?”

  “He opens his wallet to pay for our drinks and there’s a picture of the happy couple with a newborn baby, one of those cheap photos too, that you do at the Sears Portrait Studio. What the hell was I thinking?”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  “Of course I asked him about it. He actually tried to tell me that it was his twin brother.”

  “Are you sure it’s not?”

  “Twin brothers with the same tattoos and the same scar above the same eye?”

  “Okay, well, it’s good that you found out sooner than later, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I did spray all his stupid cowboy shirts with my perfume, though. He can wash them fifty times and they’ll still smell like me. Here’s the really funny part. The perfume is called Envy.”

  One thing I’ll say for Storm: She’s never boring.

  Millie comes over to take our order. I get the usual: grilled cheese sandwich with tomato slices that we most likely grew, and home fries. Storm gets a cheeseburger.

  As Millie’s writing everything down she asks me if I’ve seen today’s paper.

  “Which one?”

  “The Gazette.”

  The Gazette is a local rag that I rarely read because it’s gossipy and written by hacks who have no business attempting journalism.

  “No, why?”

  “I think you should have a look.” She disappears for a few seconds and comes back with a thin newspaper, which she lays in front of me. The headline reads:

  MEXICAN FARMWORKER SUES LOCAL WOMAN FOR WRONGFUL DEATH

  Storm leans forward and reads it upside down. “Don’t worry, hardly anyone reads the paper around here.”

  Millie is still standing there, waiting for my reaction.

  I shrug. “So what?”

  She sucks in her breath. “This town is in for some interesting times and I, for one, can’t wait.” She looks like a kid who’s excited about the circus coming to town.

  “Millie, can I get some more coffee?” asks Storm.

  Millie reluctantly goes to find the coffeepot.

  “It’s kind of sexy the way your dad likes to stir things up around here,” says Storm, taking a wad of gum out of her mouth and wrapping it in a napkin.

  “Shut up!” I skim the article. They quote Uncle Ned: “Tomás Rodriguez has every right to pursue compensation. I’m proud to represent him. It’s a landmark case for social justice.”

  God, he sounds like Che Guevara. I fold up the newspaper and put it in my backpack. I don’t want to think about this anymore. It’s starting to make my stomach hurt.

  “So, did you tell Forest about how you’re helping send his mom to the electric chair?”

  “It’s a civil suit. It’s about money, not punishment.”

  “So, did you tell him?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  Millie reappears with a coffeepot and fills our cups.

  “Honey, you tell your dad to watch his back. A lot of folks around this place don’t take too kindly to things being stirred up.”

  “Yeah, like who?” I think about the coffee-can note.

  “Well, Brody Burk, for one.”

  “My dad’s not afraid of Brody Burk.”

  Storm suddenly joins in. “He should be. Brody’s got goons. Those idiots will do whatever he says. They once took one of Brody’s dogs and threw it out of a moving truck because it wasn’t any good at hunting.”

  “My dad’s not afraid.” I feel my jaw clenching.

  Millie smiles at me sympathetically like maybe she understands that it might be tough being the daughter of a person like that. “Honey, everyone’s a little bit afraid of Brody Burk.”

  After we leave Millie’s, Storm and I walk up the street to the post office, which is the unofficial pickup spot for casual farm labor, so there are always a lot of Hispanic men standing around watching for pickup trucks. This is also the place where they come to convert their paychecks into money orders so that they can send them home to their families. I’ve always been invisible to these men but today I get a weird vibe from them. I don’t think they’re looking at Storm’s nine-foot-long legs, I think they’re looking at me. It appears that the word is out among the farmworkers. And maybe I’m a little paranoid but the locals we pass along the way all seem to be carrying the Gazette, reading the Gazette, or buying the Gazette. I guess Storm was just trying to make me feel better. I had no idea that it was such a popular paper. I always assumed that people around here read the San Francisco Chronicle or the New York Times. I thought that small-town living would make you crave national news. I couldn’t have been more wrong about that. These people don’t want to know what’s going on in the world. This is their world.

  Chapter 15

  The law offices of Funk, McIntyre, and Monk, where Connie Gilwood’s lawyers will be interviewing me, is located in a beige plaza occupied by other lawyers’ and dentists’ and doctors’ offices, generally a group of professionals that people dread visiting. It’s about ninety degrees outside and the oak-paneled boardroom that the receptionist escorts us to is as chilly as a meat locker. It feels nice for about thirty seconds and then my teeth start to chatter. It must be some sort of intimidation device. My dad and I sit down in giant leatherette chairs that are gathered around a massive oak conference table. The outside wall of the boardroom is made of glass and you can actually watch the farms disappear from here as the developers take over a few hundred acres at a time and turn them into “communities” and strip malls. There isn’t much to do as we wait for the lawyers except listen to the receptionist, back at her desk, repeat, “Good afternoon, Funk, McIntyre, and Monk,” over and over again.

  I’m wearing a clean white blouse with short sleeves, and my linen skirt and sandals. I showered this morning, but the air-conditioning in my dad’s truck has never worked so I already feel grimy and rumpled, but I don’t care. I just want this over with. My dad is wearing his work clothes (but they’re clean) and a big fat “don’t mess with me” look on his face.

  After a couple of minutes, two men in matching serious suits enter the boardroom. A woman, a court reporter, devoid of all facial expression, follows behind them and sets up her little machine in the corner. Her suit is the color of concrete. The men introduce themselves to my dad. One of them is Monk, the other one is named Johnson. His suit is a better fit and quality than Monk’s. I’m guessing he’s in from the big firm in the city. The big gun sent in to keep the damages to a minimum. My dad introduces me. Monk sizes me up and his “cool as a cucumber” expression vanishes. Johnson’s expression is unreadable. He’s better at this. On the drive over, my dad told me this might happen. I’m what they call a “grade-A” witness. I’m young and bright and fresh and I look like I tell the truth. If this case goes to trial and I walk into a courtroom and tell the jury what happened that day, they will hang on my every word. And no matter what I tell them, they will believe me. The insurance company wouldn’t have a prayer. The lawyers exchange a look. I know what this look means. It means that this case cannot go to trial.

  Uncle Ned rushes into the room at the last second. He’s dressed as a lawyer too. There’s not a trace of banjo player on him anywhere. He’s carrying a leather briefcase and he shakes hands with the grim twins and squeezes my shoulder as he sits down next to me at the boardroom table. He leans across the table and shakes my dad’s hand as though they’re just casual acquaintances and not old friends. I feel as though everyone in this roo
m is pretending to be someone they’re not. To everyone here, I look like a person who isn’t capable of telling a lie, but in the last few weeks I’ve told so many lies that I’ve lost count. Even my being here is a big lie because somehow I never got around to telling Forest about it. Somehow the right moment never arrived.

  Johnson trains a small video camera on me and loads a tape. Then I take an oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.

  Johnson sits across from me and rifles through a stack of papers. He looks up at me and smiles like the Cat in the Hat. It appears that he’ll be asking the questions and Monk will watch and learn.

  “Aurora. Can you tell me about the morning of the accident, starting with the moment that you got into the vehicle with your dad?”

  “Okay. Well. It was about six a.m. . . .”

  “About six a.m.? Can you be more exact?”

  “It was six a.m. We got in the truck and my dad started driving down Orchard Road toward the freeway.”

  “Was it daylight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the weather clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Continue.”

  “I started to doze off.”

  Johnson and Monk exchange looks.

  “I woke up a few minutes later because my dad was looking in his rearview mirror and yelling.”

  “What was he yelling, Aurora?”

  I look over at my dad. His eyes narrow. I know he can’t remember what he was yelling. Uncle Ned is scribbling notes.

  “He was yelling ‘Goddamn development people!’”

  “How do you suppose he knew it was a development person in the vehicle?”

  “They’re always in a hurry like that.”

  “So, he was yelling because the driver of the car behind you was in a hurry?”

  “No, the SUV was right behind us, right on our bumper, and she . . .”

  “She? You could tell it was a woman driving?”

  “Sure. She was right behind us.”

  “Okay. Continue.”

  “She was honking her horn. I think she wanted us to let her pass but there’s no shoulder there, you can’t pull over.”