“I still think this was an internment camp,” said Gabriel. “It has a creepy feeling.”
“Fine,” said his father. “So you’ll be sleeping in a historical place.”
Paula added, “Like those plaques that say, George Washington slept here.”
“Exactly.” Gus imitated the upbeat tone his father used whenever he found it convenient. “Just like living in a battlefield camp.”
That night the brothers found out why their neighbor to the north was known as Señor Serenata. They had pushed their cots next to an open window and were already asleep when a muffled but audible quarrel broke out in the adjoining shack.
“What the—?”
“It’s the neighbor and his wife, Gabi. Just get some z’s.”
The next thing Gabriel woke up to was a serenade coming from the same direction. For a moment he seemed to dwell in an inverted reality where he thought he was dreaming, but the dream from an instant ago had actually been the real thing. Sitting up and stirring the sleep from his eyes, he could make out Señor Serenata in silhouette, braced against the hood of his car.
“Jesus,” Gus complained in a hoarse whisper. “Are they still going at it?”
“No, now they’re making up. Hear the mariachi music?”
Several times the man stopped his slurred serenade and turned around to whisper encouragement. “That’s the spirit, muchachos! Make those violins weep! Help me win her back.”
By now just enough daylight smudged the horizon so that Gabriel could make out a boom box propped on the car roof. He smothered his face with a lumpy pillow to erase the surreal scene and sleep a bit longer.
All at once—it might have been longer but it seemed like a moment ago—the commotion was in his face as his father, crowing like a crazed rooster, pulled away the covers. “It’s time to hit the field, kids!”
“It’s still dark outside,” said Gus.
“Listen to this señorita. No wonder they brought a serenade to your window last night.” He tapped both their skulls. “Come on. There’s a whole new world out there just waiting to be discovered.”
5
Gabriel sat on his cot for a long moment and explored his surroundings, wondering whether he was awake. Although he recognized his mother and sister, the wide sunbonnets they were wearing gave their appearance an alien, unfamiliar air.
“Where am I?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
His father came up close and pinched his cheek playfully. “You’re in Disneyland. Now let’s go or you’ll be late for the rides. Over here you have to hit the ground running.”
Outside, the camp’s activity sounded dissonant yet deliberate, as households passed out work clothes and fixed breakfast, the same food that would go into the lunchpails being prepared for the fields.
“Mom,” Paula said as she listened closely to the bustle, “what do we do about our meals?”
“We could ask our neighbors,” said Gus. When his mother frowned he added, “Just this once.”
“I’d rather not start out on the wrong foot.”
“But all we have are leftover sandwiches.”
“Then it’s one more day of cold cuts. Better that than beg the camp for tacos.”
Paula agreed, “This way we’ll finish the left-overs.”
Gus grumbled, “Looks like I’ll be losing weight this summer.”
“Good,” said their father. “I didn’t know how to say this, but you and your brother were starting to get a little doughy around the ass.”
Paula laughed, “At least Gabi doesn’t pretend to be a school athlete.”
“Who’s pretending?” said Gus. “You think all those trophies on my nightstand are make-believe?”
Paula looked at the spartan surroundings. “I don’t see any trophies here. I don’t even see a nightstand. So I guess I’m not the one who’s pretending.”
“Anyway, I need to put on bulk for the fall. Otherwise I might not make the team.”
Paula approached him to make sure their father could not hear. “Well, you’re not going to put it on here, Atlas. Dad’s going to run your ass ragged.”
By then Gabriel had already stepped out onto the tiny porch. Despite the bracing morning breeze, he felt himself slipping back into a dream world. The sensation had as much to do with a lack of sleep as the surreal surroundings of camp life. He had tried to brace himself the night before. But it was one thing to enter another environment and quite another to wake up and find yourself in the middle of it. The sobering realization—all of his mornings for the remainder of summer would begin like this—did not help.
He sat on the topmost step of the house, which itself stood on top of a perimeter of concrete blocks, when Gus whispered through the screen door, “So how’s it look? As scary as I dreamed it last night?”
“Like Dad said, it’s another world.”
“That bad, huh?”
“I didn’t mean bad. I meant different.”
Gus came out to the porch with the same mask of determination he put on before a game. Yet the longer he surveyed the place, the more his demeanor grew less steely. “It’s not that different,” he finally concluded. “See that girl over there? She looks just like one of my classmates. And look at that old guy. He’s the spitting image of our mailman.”
He carefully observed a few more workers, then asked, “So how do I look?”
“What do you mean, Gus?”
“You think I’m dressed all right?”
Gabriel, still confused, struggled to make sense of the question. “It’s not like you have to wear a uniform for farmwork. There’s no dress code here. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re not working in some office.”
“I don’t want to look like some hayseed. But I didn’t want to look out of place either.” He flexed his strong arms, showing the half-rolled sleeves of a bright blue shirt that their mother had carefully ironed back in Texas.
“I don’t look like a dandy, do I?”
“Not at all. You look like your everyday … pimp.”
His brother, already insecure, took the kidding seriously, so Gabriel had to undo the remark with an energetic thumbs-up. “You look fine, Gus. You just need to rough up your city-boy edges a bit.” He inspected his own arms and hands. “For that matter so do I.”
“That’ll come soon enough.”
Gabriel nodded and at the same time tried to stifle a yawn. Then he jumped off the porch to check out the camp in the light of day. He counted close to fifteen shacks, all brimming with youngsters. Several places sported late-model pickups out front that made the shacks appear even shabbier.
As he strolled down the dirt road that divided the camp, he could sense the uncertainty of the other workers as they watched with inquiring eyes. Several times he nodded at them, and all but once they nodded back or raised a hand in greeting. Gradually he realized that Gus was right. The surroundings might seem foreign, but the people were not that different from those he already knew back home. He was especially surprised at the number of migrants speaking English, not just youngsters but adults as well. He had always assumed that agricultural labor was the sole province of Mexicans, especially undocumented workers, and that illegal workers in other jobs, like construction, had ended up there because the jobs in the fields were already taken by other Mexicans. Now, seeing so many native-born migrants like himself, it bothered him that they ended up with these jobs while undocumented workers often had other, betterpaying jobs.
When he returned, Gus was waiting with a sarcastic look, as if expecting a scouting report. When his younger brother said nothing, he finally asked outright, “So how’s it look? Like Paula’s Disney World?”
“More like the Third World.”
He had meant the remark as a joke, just as Gus had, but his brother took it to heart.
“I only hope the Border Patrol doesn’t show up asking us for papers. That would be the ultimate insult.”
“I don’t think the Border Patrol works this far North. Bes
ides, I’m pretty sure the government’s worked out a deal with the growers—”
“Come to think of it,” Gus interrupted, “a raid might not be that bad. It might break up the camp. Then we could go to Anaheim and back home.”
Before Gabriel could respond, Gus began scanning for stations on a small portable stereo. “We can listen to this in the fields. This way we’ll keep in touch with civilization.”
He fiddled with the tuner far and wide, but the only voices that came through with any clarity belonged to a few country singers and evangelists.
“I thought you said we’d be in touch with civilization,” said Gabriel.
Gus was attempting another pass at the stations when Señor Serenata’s oldest son stepped outside and greeted them with a nonchalant nod. He pried open a pack of fat batteries and began feeding them into a hefty boom box, and suddenly their own stereo sounded annoying and tinny.
“Say, Gus, isn’t that what his dad was playing last night?”
Gus rolled his eyes and muttered back, “Great. Now we have to put up with mariachis day and night.”
No sooner did he say this than the young man ejected the CD inside, inserted another one, and cranked up some hard rock.
“I guess I misjudged this guy.” Gus ambled over to introduce himself and soon called out, “Gabi! This is Victor!
Victor gave Gabriel a lethargic acknowledgment that bordered on disdain, as if he were waving him away. Gabriel returned the greeting with a minimal gesture of his own and turned his attention toward his opposite neighbors. He quickly noticed that only grownups greeted the boys, who they called the Borrado brothers. When he got a closer look, he realized their nickname came from their gray eyes. One of his cousins had similar eyes, except that his were framed by a dark face that reminded Gabriel of a panther peering out from a dark cave.
In the case of the Borrados, though, there was no contrast in their complexion to accentuate the color of their eyes. In fact, the nearer the boys got, the more striking their eyes seemed, as if their pale color—all color, in fact—was bleeding away with each added step.
Their father appeared so fair-skinned, rested, and immaculate that for an instant, Gabriel even wondered whether he might be the grower. Don Pilo wore a crisp linen vest over a Sunday shirt that set him apart from the rest of the crew, while his smartly pressed cowboy hat lacked any trace of sweat stains.
When Gus returned, Gabriel immediately directed his attention to Don Pilo, adding in a low voice, “Now there’s a dandy.”
Gus could only agree. “How does he manage to look so spiffy? Didn’t the crew boss say the guy’s a widower?”
“I guess not having a wife means no fights. So he probably has lots of time on his hands. Unlike …”
Gabriel glanced once more in the direction of their opposite neighbors, who had already given them a sample of their domestic squabbles.
Gus was still observing Don Pilo, as engrossed as his brother had been. “The crew boss also said that by sundown his sons are roosting like chickens. Maybe that’s also why he has time to spruce up.”
No sooner had he said this than the three boys rushed into their shack then out again, all the while loading hats, lunchboxes and other field gear in the trunk of their car. Gabriel admitted that the collective nickname suited the trio. Besides the washed-out color of their eyes, the name suggested a gray, generic sameness.
At that moment two attractive young women passed by and shouted simultaneously, “Good morning!”
Gabriel turned to them with a self-conscious smile, then realized the greeting was not meant for him or Gus. Indeed, although the women stood only a few yards away, they barely acknowledged them with a quick, suspicious glance reserved for strangers. Instead they began gazing at the Borrados. They had even removed their hats and set down their lunch containers, as though paying their respects. As they walked away, Gabriel heard the slight one say, “I think the oldest one likes me.”
Gabriel turned to his brother. “What do they see in those weasels? That they’re white and have gray eyes? They still look weird.”
“I know. But that’s the point. Look at them.”
Gabriel glanced at them.
“Look at them. Look at how scrawny they are. I’ll bet anything those guys are gay,” added Gus.
“So if they’re gay why were those girls waving at them?”
“Jesus, Gabi, haven’t you figured out women yet? Girls are drawn to gay guys. They’re nonthreatening. They know they won’t be all over them. What’s more, guys like that actually enjoy listening to all the bull about makeup and shopping at the mall.”
Gabriel looked at the boys again. “I don’t know, Gus. They don’t look that frail to me. They look scrappy.”
“Well, you’re right about that. Victor said each one picks more strawberries than any adult. That’s why grownups admire them. They’re the ideal offspring. But that’s also why the other kids hate their guts.”
That was certainly the case with Gabriel who, having barely seen them a moment ago, could already conclude, “There’s something about those guys I don’t like.”
It did not help when at that instant the oldest Borrado returned his stare, regarding Gabriel as though he had just stumbled onto fresh meat. Then, just as quickly, he looked away and began chattering with his brothers.
The distant contact came and went in a flash, but it left Gabriel with a lingering dislike. Whereas Victor had at least greeted him grudgingly, the oldest boy had not even acknowledged him. That slate-gray gaze had gone right through him.
“Breakfast!” Paula called out.
As they stepped back inside, Gus entered with a cautious expression that turned taciturn when he saw the same sandwiches, only now cut into fourths and with the stale edges trimmed off.
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
His father, rather than argue, went to the van and returned with a package of cinnamon rolls that he had stashed away before they left Texas. He pulled a roll from the rest and offered it to Gus.
“Sure you’re not hungry?”
Gus gathered his willpower into a resolute head shake. “You said you didn’t want us to pig out on junk food.”
He was hoping to get his siblings on his side and get them to turn down the bribe. Paula, however, helped herself to his roll. “This isn’t pigging out. It’s a small treat.” She closed her eyes and gave a small smack of delight. “Besides, who knows how long it will be before we have something this sweet again.”
Their father finished licking the leftover icing from his fingers. “Don’t want to get the steering wheel all sticky.”
“Why?” asked Gabriel. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Of course. We’re going to work. It’s time to drive out to the field.”
Gabriel looked at him, incredulous. “What? We’re in the middle of nowhere, and now we have to drive out to the edge of nowhere?”
“Think of the crew as an army,” said his father. “The camp is like … well, an army camp.” When the analogy did not seem to satisfy his son, he added, “Don’t tell me you expected to just stick your hand out the kitchen window and start picking strawberries from the garden?”
Gus answered for his brother. “Of course not, Dad. This dump doesn’t even have a real kitchen, much less a garden.”
At the last minute their mother stayed behind, saying she needed to make the place more like home.
“That’s impossible, Mom,” answered Gabriel. “And mind you, our home’s nothing to brag about.”
“Well, then, I’ll make it more … habitable.”
Gus assessed the place with a critical eye. “Yeah, maybe if you work really hard it might be fit for a family of raccoons.”
The rest of the family followed the caravan to a huge field they would harvest over the next few days. Although barely awake, Gabriel appreciated the weather, since back home an unrelenting cycle of heat and humidity had started weeks before. That single respite made California worth th
e trip, even if it meant fieldwork.
The climate offered another advantage—the countryside had the lushness of paradise. During summers in south Texas, except for irrigated areas, the parched landscape barely sustained scrawny brush and stunted trees. Here the vegetation flourished. Although Gabriel had noticed an irrigation ditch here and there, it still could not explain the greenery all around.
They arrived at the field with explicit instructions from their father to mimic the other workers. Paula listened carefully, even though earlier she had been given the choice of helping their mother or of harvesting.
“I thought you were smart,” Gus told her as they stepped out of the van. “You could have stayed back there.”
“So?”
“So you’ll see.”
“I was curious. I can always do housework at home. Besides, this way I can tell my kids how I once worked my butt off in the fields.” She smiled and turned her gaze toward their father.
Their father could not overhear the discussion, but he did notice her enigmatic gaze. Instead of bothering to ask her anything, he immediately looked elsewhere. “Gustavo, don’t make trouble.”
“How can I? I don’t have a clue what’s going on, or what we’re supposed to do.” He studied the field at his feet. “We’re supposed to be picking berries? I don’t see any.”
“Get your face closer to the ground.”
“You mean in those weeds?”
“They’re not weeds. They’re strawberry plants.”
He did a double take. “I thought strawberries grew on bushes, like when people pick berries in the movies. But these … we’ll have to really get down and look hard to get these things.” He approached the field cautiously, as if it were seeded with landmines. “I still don’t see a single strawberry.”
Don Pilo gave a soft giggle. “That’s because this part of the field’s been picked. We have to move farther down. See where my boys are?”
“You’ll have to excuse my sons, Señor. They’re a little inexperienced at this.” Don Pilo barely acknowledged them and instead smiled at Paula, so their father added, “My daughter’s just as green.”
A So-Called Vacation Page 4
