Juan Pablo and the Butterflies

by JJ Flowers

  Thinking of all the heartache in one room, Juan Pablo finished the bowl of oatmeal, but noticed the girl next to him kept wiping tears from her large brown eyes. The little girl’s oatmeal remained untouched.

  Noticing this, a lady guard stepped forward. The guard’s overweight form spilled out of the too-tight guard uniform. She had large eyes, rimmed in black like a raccoon, and bright red lipstick accented the thin lines of her mouth. Written in messy cursive, her name tag read Margo. She looked angry and sounded mean.

  “Don’t like the food?”

  The little girl froze, staring hard at the bowl of oatmeal.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  Juan Pablo asked quietly, “The lady wants to know if you are all right.”

  The little girl shook her head.

  “What is wrong?” Juan Pablo asked in Spanish.

  A small hand went to her cheek. “My tooth hurts. I want my mom.”

  Juan Pablo translated this. The woman looked at him. “You speak English?”

  “Yes,” Juan Pablo said.

  “Tell her she is in luck. The American taxpayers will probably love to send her to a dentist.” The woman wandered off.

  Juan Pablo spoke to the little girl. “What’s your name?”

  “Lila.”

  “Lila, these people will try to find your mother for you. They will help you. They are good people. They will send you to a dentist to fix your tooth.”

  She nodded, but said nothing else. Too scared. Everyone was scared like that.

  Later Juan Pablo played soccer with the other boys his age in the cement yard outside, surrounded by high barbed-wire fencing. A moist fog billowed between the sky and the ground, painting the world gray. He had heard of fog his whole life, but this was his first experience of the mist.

  Juan Pablo couldn’t concentrate. He kept searching the surrounding area for the man with the red boots. What would happen if he came here? Could he find him here? If he found him on the cruise ship, he could find him anywhere.

  Would the Americans turn him over?

  He didn’t think so, but there was no telling what the man with the red boots would do to get him. He’d had another nightmare last night. He was being chased, running for his life, looking for his abuela and Rocio. The man was gaining on him . . . He woke in a panic. At first he didn’t know where he was, but in the darkness, he heard someone crying. Then he remembered.

  Finally giving up on the game, he retreated to the sidelines with the other children to think. If only he could play his violin, he felt he would be okay, but they had taken his violin and iPad from him for safekeeping. They also wouldn’t let him contact Rocio on his iPad. Not until he was “processed,” whatever that was.

  He tried to play the music in his mind, but even this was hard.

  The fog began dissipating, chased by a noonday sun that reached warm fingers to the asphalt. The heat was comforting. Sunshine made him think of the butterflies, and that gave him courage. He had lost everything and he had nothing more to lose. He might as well ask again.

  He approached the lady watching over them. Short, with short brown hair and large dark glasses, she offered him a smile. Her name tag said Judy.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Judy,” he beckoned politely. “I have a question.”

  She brightened with a smile. “Ohmygod. You speak English?”

  “Yes. I was wondering if my violin and iPad are safe. They were taken from me for safekeeping and I was hoping I could check on them. When it is not too much trouble.”

  Judy stared in dumbfounded wonder.

  But Juan Pablo didn’t notice Judy’s stare for several long seconds. He was watching a monarch butterfly floating behind a woman who emerged from a white car. She clicked the electronic lock. Thick gray curls framed a warm and kind face. He knew she was kind from a distance, though he could not say how he knew. She wore a blue and green flowing top over loose-fitting pants. She carried an enormous purse, one that reminded him of Rocio’s favorite old movie, Mary Poppins. The thought panged his heart. The girl loved that old movie; she made him learn all the songs and then made him play them over and over.

  Judy waved to the lady and she started walking toward them.

  “Hi, Dolores,” Judy said, like they were friends. “There’s a long line of kids already. Emphasis on long.”

  “Tell me they found an interpreter. Otherwise, I can’t see what good I can do here.”

  Judy looked from Dolores to Juan Pablo. “What’s your name, young man?”

  “Juan Pablo.”

  “Dolores, you’re in luck. You won’t believe this, but this young man here, Juan Pablo, just informed me—in perfect English—that we are holding his violin in custody and that he would like to visit it.”

  Dolores Goodman absorbed this and laughed. “I see. So, you play the violin?”

  “Yes,” Juan Pablo said.

  “Hmm . . .” Dolores said.

  He felt the intensity of her stare.

  “Who is your favorite composer?”

  His favorite composer? There was no harder question, for the answer changed with the hour. “That is a very difficult question,” he said. “I love Beethoven most, of course, I guess, but I also love Bach, Mozart, and lately I have found that I love Mendelssohn very much. Before this I was very drawn to Debussy. I think his music is very exciting.”

  Dolores’s smile grew in stages. “And who is your favorite violinist?”

  “That is hard, too. Sarah Chang is excellent, but Joshua Bell. I once saw him perform in Mexico City.”

  Dolores studied him with intense curiosity and an amused smile. She asked a number of basic questions as they stood there in the hall before she asked, “And are you good in school, Juan Pablo?”

  “My grandmother took me out of school. We bought an iPad instead, so I could do math at the Khan Academy—”

  “The Khan Academy? My grandkids use them. What level math are you at?”

  “Calculus.”

  “But how old are you?”

  He told her, then continued, “My grandmother insisted I do at least one math tutorial a day, but I love math almost as much as music and I normally do four. I also take violin lessons from Señor Grendal in Iceland.”

  “On Skype?” When he nodded, she said, “Juan Pablo, what if we go visit your violin? I suspect I’d love to hear you play.”

  “I would be most honored.”

  Dolores threw her head back and laughed. “I knew I agreed to leave my happy retirement for a reason.”

  That was the beginning of their relationship. With thick gray hair, old-fashioned glasses, and bright, colorful clothes, Dolores Goodman, he soon learned, had come all the way from San Francisco to help process the children here. It was his second week at the naval station.

  Juan Pablo had never met anyone like Dolores. Being her interpreter was the saddest job in the world.

  Eight years old and scared, Rosa Ochoa wore a pink hairband that kept slipping over her forehead. She pushed it back but kept her round, large eyes on her lap. Speaking in a whisper, she answered Dolores’s questions as best she could.

  “Where’s she from, Juan Pablo?” Dolores asked, not looking up.

  Before he could answer, she held up her finger. “Yes,” the older woman said, speaking into the phone now. “I’m looking for Carman Garcia. Is she there?”

  Juan Pablo marveled at Dolores’s ability to orchestrate the phones, computer, and children all at the same time. They had become friends over the last two weeks. Dolores and her large family loved music, too. She had seen many of the greats perform live.

  “I love Dudamel. It is my dream to see him perform someday.”

  “That is a lovely dream, Juan Pablo. He is fabulous, electrifying!”

  “You have seen him in real life?”

  “Many times. My whole family goes whenever we can.”

  “I have seen him on YouTube, but they say it is not the same.”

  “No, there is not
hing like a live performance. Maybe someday I can take you.”

  Dolores was an abuela herself and all three of her children and all six of her grandchildren played instruments. Her daughter-in-law was even a music history professor at Stanford University where she studied the great composers’ lives. This was fascinating to Juan Pablo; of course, he had read about each of the great composers on Wikipedia.

  He told her about his abuela’s passing and about Rocio. Dolores had called Rocio’s mother immediately, and she let him talk to Rocio, so she wouldn’t be worried. Unfortunately, it was against the law to let him go to “friends;” placements had to be blood relatives. She said he was a very special case and would have a special placement, but in the meantime, she needed his help with the other children.

  He did not tell her about the man with the red boots. He didn’t want to frighten her, nor did he want to place her in danger. Still, ever since he’d met Dolores, he had stopped having nightmares.

  “Did she leave a forwarding address?” Dolores inquired into the phone. “I’ve got her two kids here, and believe me, they are anxious to see their mother.”

  The older woman wrote down an address and hung up. She Googled this new address as she motioned for Juan Pablo to continue.

  “Rosa is from Atlántida—”

  “Where?” Dolores asked.

  “Honduras,” Juan Pablo explained.

  “Father?”

  “Rosa’s father was a policeman.”

  “Her father is in Honduras? Does she have a number?”

  “He was killed. Murdered.”

  Dolores looked up finally. “Murdered? Who killed him? Does she know?”

  “The bad guys,” Juan Pablo conveyed her words.

  “Again. The ubiquitous bad guys. Mother?”

  “Her mother is a house painter in Washington.”

  “DC or state?”

  Juan Pablo asked Rosa, but he already knew her answer. Sure enough, he said, “She just says Washington in America.”

  “Please tell me she has another relative.”

  Juan Pablo asked Rosa, but he already knew this answer as well. “Her abuela, her grandmother, but—”

  “Excellent. In Honduras?”

  “No,” Juan Pablo said. “It is another sad story, Dolores. She said the bad men kept calling her mother in America for money so they wouldn’t hurt her and her abuela, but the price kept going up and when her mother could no longer pay, her mother told them to come to America, no matter how hard it was. Rosa left Honduras with her abuela.”

  “And where is this grandmother now?”

  Juan Pablo whispered, “She didn’t make it. She died on the way.”

  Dolores finally looked at Rosa. “The poor kid. What happened? Does she say?”

  Juan Pablo shrugged. Both he and Dolores had heard the same story dozens of times. Walking for days and days. No food, sometimes no water. Finding the “beast,” which was the slang name for the trains running north. Trying to run and catch a bar to jump on—no easy feat for a grown man, let alone a little girl and an old abuela.

  “Rosa says it was always hard getting on and off the train. They sat on top, hanging on with all their strength. It was very windy. There were many other children on the trains, but she never talked to them, except to show them her bruises and cuts. Everyone was afraid of dying and they were always so hungry and thirsty. Her abuela finally couldn’t walk anymore and she paid the last money to some men to take Rosa across the border.”

  Juan Pablo didn’t say what happened then, because Rosa couldn’t say. She tried, but she just started crying.

  Rosa wiped at her eyes and spoke softly to Juan Pablo.

  “She wants to see her mother.”

  “Oh, honey,” Dolores said, “I will do everything possible to find your mom.”

  Juan Pablo translated this and Rosa wiped at her eyes, nodding.

  Dolores was punching out a new number for the Garcia girls. “Juan Pablo, see if you can get anything more on the address.”

  Juan Pablo asked Rosa if she was given anything, especially a number or an address to reach her mom. Rosa nodded, but hesitated. Juan Pablo assured her she was safe, that Dolores was a good woman, an abuela herself. She had six grandchildren; Juan Pablo had seen the pictures.

  Rosa removed her hairband. She handed this to Juan Pablo.

  The number was written in a black marker on the underside.

  “I got it, Dolores. She has a phone number.”

  “Hallelujah. Uno momento,” she said as she waited on the phone.

  Soon three more children would be reunited with their mothers.

  For more than two weeks, every day was the same. He woke up, showered when his group was called, ate breakfast, and then found Dolores in her office. Children were called in, and he translated their stories for Dolores. The goal was always to reunite children with a relative in the United States or their home country.

  During lunch and after work, he and Dolores went to the room that housed his violin. He was able to play as much as time permitted. When Dolores was tired—they worked very long hours—she often lay down on a couch and closed her eyes to listen. She always recorded his music. “I play it for my family and a few friends, too. Lisa, my daughter-in-law, is so impressed, Juan Pablo. She can’t wait to meet you.”

  The idea that he would meet the professor of music excited him, but he said nothing. His abuela always said, Some people say things that aren’t true just to make people happy. Sadly, the happiness ends when the truth appears. He didn’t think Dolores was this kind of person, but the idea of meeting a real-life music professor seemed impossible.

  “Where will I go when I leave?” Juan Pablo had asked, reasonably enough.

  “Depends,” she had told him. “I am working on it. You have a court date. Ultimately, a judge will decide.”

  His court date was supposed to be tomorrow, but it had been postponed again. He suspected Dolores of arranging this delay because she needed an interpreter.

  “You are a godsend,” Dolores said more than once. “I really believe that.”

  “I am happy to help.”

  “That might be the most special part.”

  The more he knew Dolores, the more he came to care for her. She was not at all like his abuela, but she had his abuela’s same kindness. She let him call Rocio once a day. She had brought him three books to read. To Kill a Mockingbird was his favorite. She arranged for him to have his iPad while she supervised so he could exchange emails and texts with Rocio, who loved being with her mother again and loved her new school. Dolores played music while they worked. Lisa sent her the very best music with interesting bits of information.

  Dolores loved sharing stories about her family. Dolores’s husband, Sam, was a professor like her daughter-in-law, but of psychology. Her oldest daughter, Laura, was a veterinarian, and she was married to Lewis, a doctor. They had three children: Mark, fifteen, who loved sports and girls; Kyle, thirteen, who loved astronomy; and little Eva, a “special needs kid,” who Dolores said was a conduit for love. Conduit meant a conductor. Eva was a conductor of love. Dolores’s other daughter, Kimberly, was a schoolteacher. She was married to Doug, a computer scientist at Google, and they had three children: Chris, eight, a baseball player; Maureen, the math whiz; and little Sam, who was not so little, though only two years old. Sam had been named after Dolores’s son who had died some two years ago.

  “He passed away like your mom and your abuela,” she explained in voice softened by loss. “A mother is not supposed to have favorites among their children, but . . .”

  She didn’t finish, but Juan Pablo could guess the end to the sentence. “I am sorry, Ms. Dolores. I truly am. My abuela said losing a child is the hardest thing on earth until—”

  He stopped, unsure if he should say the rest.

  “Until what, Juan Pablo?”

  “Until . . . well, she said until you experience gratitude.”

  Dolores was taken aback. “
Gratitude for your child’s death?”

  Juan Pablo shook his head. “No, no. Gratitude for having known their love.”

  Dolores just stared, and for several minutes he tensed with the certainty that he had said the wrong thing. But finally he noticed her eyes were wet with tears. She removed her glasses and wiped them. He could tell Dolores understood what his abuela said, but she never responded.

  Finally, he asked, “Do you believe in the Sky People?”

  “The Sky People?”

  “The people who live in the spirit realm after they die on earth.”

  She thought about it for a long time. “I don’t know. I want to believe that. More than anything.”

  “My abuela also always said belief in something often makes it true.”

  Dolores took that in and rose. She came to where he was standing and hugged him. Her hug, a grandmother’s, stayed with him a long time.

  The man with the red boots seemed so far away now.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The guard Margo held a clipboard and appeared to be reading from it. “Juan Pablo?”

  Juan Pablo turned to see the woman standing at the door to the dormitory. She seemed nervous, her gaze darting this way and that, the anger hiding behind her thick makeup. The other day he had heard her complaining about “freeloaders,” these people from other countries who stole from the hard-working people of this one. “The damn government squeezing us to give them a free ride . . .”

  The buzzing in his ears warned him of something terrible happening, but what could it be? Dolores wasn’t here yet. Most of the children had been sent to relatives. Some unfortunates had been deported back to their countries, but only when they had relatives who would take them in and keep them safe. At least that was the intention. They were closing the naval station shelter soon.