Evangelina Takes Flight

by Diana J. Noble

  Mamá undoes her bun and pins it back neatly on top of her head.

  “Domingo, come here. Let me wipe your face. You look like you haven’t had a bath in days. I suppose you haven’t had a bath in days, now have you? We’ll have to take care of that at your aunt’s house.”

  She pulls out her handkerchief. Domingo stands still, his chin in the air. He’s used to this. Mamá wipes his hands and face a lot. Dirt seems to grow on him. Normally, our clothes would be pressed, our shoes would be shined before we went into town, and there wouldn’t be a hair out of place, especially for us girls. Today, we look, well . . . sloppy.

  The store comes into view. “SENECA GROCERY & GIFTS.” I recognize the word “Seneca.” Shelves stacked with cans and boxes stand near the window. A large jar with wrapped candy sits on the counter. A woman in a white dress with a ruffled collar stands behind the counter and smiles at another woman, who turns and steps out the front door, hand in hand with a small light-haired boy about four years old. She stops and looks at us sternly for a moment, spins around, pulls the boy’s hand and walks away briskly.

  I turn back toward the store. The woman with the white dress stands behind the window and points to a sign at the bottom of the window sill. “No Dogs! No Negroes! No Mexicans! No Perros! No Negros! No Mexicanos!”

  Mamá, Enrique and Elsa stare at the sign, then at the woman. Her pinched expression infuriates me. A strange sensation of tiny prickles starts at my neck and then flushes my face. Mamá grabs my hand and squeezes it.

  “Let’s go in,” Domingo calls out as he pulls Mamá’s other hand.

  “Hold on, m’ijo,” Mamá whispers.

  “I cannot believe this,” Enrique moans.

  “What?” Domingo looks ahead, searching.

  “Let’s keep walking. The store is closed,” Mamá says coolly.

  “But I see a person in there!” Domingo cries out.

  “Do as you’re told,” Enrique snaps.

  “I saw bananas in there! Will the lady give me a banana?”

  “No, m’ijo, just walk,” Mamá commands. “We’ve got apples in my bag.”

  “I’m not hungry for apples,” Domingo snivels. “I’m only hungry for bananas.”

  We walk faster now. We pass brick buildings with signs out front. I know the letters but not the words. J-DRAKE RESTAURANT & BAR. Schimke Bros. Farm & Feed. Zimbelman Tie & Timber Co. Large trees line the street. Green, yellow and orange leaves rustle in the wind. A gentle gust blows and more leaves fall, float, twist and spiral before they settle on the grass and sidewalk. A two-story white building comes into view with one door at the ground level. A staircase leads to the second level balcony and another door. An elderly man crouches on all fours and pulls weeds near the sidewalk.

  We walk up and cast a shadow over the man, but he busily works away. His fingers look thick and curved, like my grandmother’s before she died. He lifts his hat to wipe his brow with a handkerchief.

  “Buenas tardes,” calls the man as he pushes himself up. “Please let me introduce myself.” He bows his head. “My name is Salvador Martínez. This is the local courthouse and school. I clean the place, tend the grounds and do anything else the place may need. The call me Mister Fix-it,” he chuckles. “Is someone expecting you?” He motions toward our suitcases.

  “Good evening, sir,” Mamá responds. “We’ve been traveling for days, but I think we’re almost to our destination, 1918 Washington Street, where my sister and her husband live.”

  “Well, that address is our little Catholic Church—an old house really. The Lord doesn’t care where you worship so long as you do. Are you sure you have the right address?”

  “Come to think of it, she said I could mail letters to that address. She didn’t say she lived there. I just assumed,” Mamá frowns. “She moved to Seneca with her husband three or four years ago. The name is Benavides . . . Mario and Cristina.”

  “I know Mario. Works for Texas Southern Railway. He’s lucky. So many others can’t find work except in the fields, and that kind of work comes and goes.” The old man rubs his whiskers. “Most of us in town live on Washington Street, but it’s not a real street like this one. Someone, probably an Anglo, named it after the first American president.”

  Elsa looks at me with raised eyebrows.

  “If you want, I’ll finish up and walk you to their place.”

  “We would appreciate that, Señor Martínez,” Mamá says quietly. “But, I hate to trouble you.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. It’s my pleasure. If you would, please wait here while I put my tools away around back.” He looks us over and rests his hand on his chin. “You must be hungry after a long day’s travel. I’ll bring you some corn bread. I have some inside. My wife tells me I get irritable when I’m hungry.” The man shuffles off with his rake and shovel in hand.

  “What do you think he means by ‘it’s not a real street’?” I wonder out loud.

  “I’m not sure,” Mamá says, frowning. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “Did he say he’s bringing us something to eat”? Domingo squeals happily. “Because I don’t want apples.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Scruffy Bunch

  June 1, 1911

  Large front porches and thick green grass wrap around stunning homes, like in pictures from a book. Sweet smelling magnolia trees, rose bushes, neatly planted flower beds and perfectly shaped shrubs fill the yards around us. Our home in Mariposa has a large front porch, but no lawn, mostly tufts of grass with dirt and rocks in between.

  “Do you think Tía Cristina’s house will look like these? They’re so beautiful. That one,” I point to a giant yellow house with white shutters, “reminds me of a castle I saw in a book . . . with the rounded part and the coneshaped roof, like there might be a princess hidden in there waiting for her prince.”

  “Evangelina,” Mamá glances at me over her shoulder, “I don’t know what your aunt’s house will look like, but it won’t look like that. But you’re right about one thing. That is a beautiful house. The story you’re remembering is Rapunzel. I read it to you when you were little.”

  “Oh, the princess with the long hair. I loved that book.”

  I picture myself as a small girl on Mamá’s lap in the rocking chair, safe at home, leaning against her, covered up to my neck with a soft quilt.

  “That was a stupid story. What girl would let someone pull themselves up on her hair?” Enrique teases.

  “Well, I thought you boys didn’t listen to princess stories. But from the sound of it, I guess you did!” Elsa retorts.

  Suddenly, Enrique has nothing to say.

  “The houses are much smaller here,” Elsa comments as we make our way down the fourth block.

  “We must be getting into the poorer section of town,” Enrique adds. “Some of these people need to hire a carpenter.”

  “Keep your voice down, son,” Mamá murmurs.

  He’s right. I see broken windows, rotting sideboards, peeling paint, a slanted house on posts with one post completely missing. Another house is boarded up. How could we go from such grand homes to such run-down ones in a matter of blocks?

  “This way,” our guide beckons. “Over the railroad tracks.”

  The light obscures the hand-painted wooden sign up ahead until we’re standing right in front of it. Washington Street. We’re here!

  “It’s only Mexicans here in this neighborhood,” Señor Martínez clarifies. “A few very rich Mexican families live in town with the Anglos,” he explains. “There’s nothing fancy about our little community, but we can call it our own. I live here myself with my wife Patricia, just behind Amparo’s panadería. That bakery has the best conchas in town. If you come to the little plaza just down there,” he points down the narrow road, “after three o’clock on Saturdays, Amparo sells them at half price.”

  Up ahead, two barefoot boys in loose-fitting pants and shirts roll a wheel rim down the road with a stick and chase after it. A young gir
l about ten years old extends her arms to grab a chicken pecking the ground, but it runs off squawking and flapping. She sets off after it.

  “Get back here you silly chicken!” she screams. She and the chicken get farther and farther apart.

  The homes sit even closer together than the last ones, with only an arm’s length between them. Some are little houses with just one room built of sandstone or wood. Others look like huts, jacales, made of sticks, rocks, mud, hay and palm fronds. Clotheslines run between them. Dresses, skirts, pants, socks, shirts and under things hang in the cool air. A few women unpin clothes and drop them into baskets before the evening dew sets in.

  The homes end and shops begin. First is a butcher shop, El Toro Carnicería. Thick hooks hang above the display window with rings of chorizo, baby goats, chickens, slabs of ribs and haunches of venison.

  Coronado’s herb and spice shop sits on the corner with a painted door depicting a life-size Virgin of Guadalupe surrounded by heavenly rays. Across the street, empty bottles line the curb outside a cantina. A barefoot boy bends down to pick them up and sets them carefully in a sack.

  “Señor, you’ve been with us for a while, and it’s getting to be evening now. We don’t mean to keep you,” Mamá says. “Do you just want to point us toward the house? If you can tell us what it looks like, we can find it on our own. I’m sure you want to get home to your own family.”

  Señor Martínez points ahead. “Very good timing, señora. Their place is there, with the aloe plant near the door.”

  “Oh, thank heavens! Thank you for your kindness. I hope we meet again sometime. You’ve been very helpful. We wouldn’t have found it without you.”

  “My pleasure, señora. Perhaps I will see you and the family at church. I will introduce you to my lovely bride, Patricia.”

  “Thank you again, Señor Martínez! And may all be well with you! Come on kids. That’s your tía’s house!”

  A few steps lead to a small porch where an aloe plant sits in a round planter etched with a palm tree design. Back home the aloe plants are large, some of them taller than three or four bales of hay stacked one on top of the other.

  Home, home, home. I miss home.

  Mamá sets down her suitcase, shakes out her hand and rubs her tired shoulder. The rest of us set our things down, too. Mamá walks up three creaky stairs. She pulls open the screen door.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  A soft light appears through the curtains in the front window. The door opens and Tía Cristina steps out. I remember her, but only vaguely. Her housedress hangs like a tent concealing a prize-winning pumpkin.

  “Maríaelena!” Tía Cristina exclaims. “Why . . . how . . . ? What are you doing here?”

  “Cristina, I am so happy to see you! And look at you! You are expecting another baby! I had no idea. Congratulations!”

  Tía stands still, her mouth open and eyes as big as walnuts.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to surprise you like this,” Mamá gushes. “We left home nearly three days ago. I sent you a letter saying we might come, but I was afraid you wouldn’t get it. Based on the look on your face, I guess you didn’t. It’s been a long trip. We’re so glad to be here.”

  Tía’s eyes scan across each of our faces. We must look like a scruffy bunch. She shakes her head slowly, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. “You’re all . . . so . . . grown up! Look at you! My goodness, why are you standing out there? I’m sorry . . . please . . . come in, come in!”

  She steps aside, and we grab our things and step in the front door.

  “Have a seat.” She gestures toward the sofa and two wooden chairs. A child’s rocking chair sits nearby. “I’ll get you something to drink and eat.”

  She moves across the floor with the unmistakable gait of a woman heavy with child.

  “I’ll help you,” Mamá offers. “You all stay here. I will be right back.”

  They walk through the doorway to what must be the kitchen. I lean forward and see the edge of a table and chair.

  I find the sofa and sit down. Domingo snuggles up next to me and rests his head on my shoulder, thumb in his mouth. Elsa sits down in a chair, and Enrique shows himself around the house.

  We made it! Sitting on a sofa in a room inside a house feels so good. It was only three days travel, but it feels like weeks. I want to sleep. I want to eat. I want to go home. I’m happy we’re here. I want my father. I hope Tomás is doing better. I wish Abuelito was here. What’s to become of us?

  “Do you think she was happy to see us?” Elsa asks. “Do you think there will be enough room for us here?”

  “I have it all figured out,” Enrique says as he walks back in. “There’s a big porch out back, all screened in. The men can sleep out there.”

  “So, not you,” I giggle.

  “I’m a man, you fool. If Elsa’s old enough to be courted and get married, then that makes me a man. I’m in charge until Papá gets here. When it gets colder we’ll just sleep in our clothes. That’s if we’re still here by then.”

  Mamá and Tía walk back into the room. Tía holds a tray with glasses of milk. She sets it down on the little round table in front of the sofa, walks to a cabinet near the front door and brings out a box of matches.

  “Here, let me do that.” Mamá steps over and reaches for the matchbox.

  “Over there,” Tía points to the candleholders on the wall, one on either side of the front door. “I’ll be right back. I can’t believe you’re here!”

  Mamá lifts the glass off the candle, strikes a match and the candlewicks flicker gold, orange and yellow. The light adds a softness to the room that only makes me more tired.

  Tía comes back in with a plate of bread and cheese. Enrique leans over, picks up a large piece of cheese and pops it into his mouth.

  Mamá frowns at Enrique and shakes her head. “M’ijo, why don’t you offer your seat to your very pregnant Tía?”

  Enrique stands and gestures toward his chair. “Of course. How rude of me. Tía, please, take my seat.”

  “Thank you. What a gentleman you are.” She looks backward, grabs the back of the chair with one hand and steadies herself into the chair. “The last time I saw you, you were this high.” She lifts her hand to Enrique’s waist. “All of you . . . you’ve all changed. Elsa, you are such a beauty. If I remember right, you just turned fifteen. I guess that means Enrique turned fifteen, too. You’ll have to tell me about your quinceañera later. Evangelina, you’re still just a tiny thing, but a young woman nonetheless. And that beautiful hair! I see a touch of red in it. I’m sure the boys have taken notice. And Domingo! What a sweet boy, look at him with all those dark curls. He looks like Adán.” She locks eyes with Mamá. “Mario and I haven’t had family around in so long. He found work with the railroad. That’s where he is right now, working on the new line. I’m thankful for the work, but I’ve missed the family. I’ve missed seeing you all grow up.”

  “And what about Leticia?” Mama inquires. “She must be sleeping?”

  “Yes, she goes to sleep around seven o’clock. She turned two a few days before Elsa and Enrique turned fifteen. We’ll see how she does when her little brother or sister is born.”

  “You must be due anytime.” Mamá nods at Tía’s midsection.

  “Actually, I’m due in a month or two, or that’s what the midwife says. I just feel so . . . big!”

  “You most certainly are,” Mamá agrees. “It must be a boy. Big and strong like his father.”

  “So, you will stay here? You’re welcome here as long as you need a place to stay. It’s a small house, just two bedrooms, but Leticia can sleep with us.”

  “Mamá and the girls can take the other room,” Enrique adds, “and the men can sleep on the porch.”

  “Of course. There’s no place to sleep out there now, so you’ll have to make a bed with a few extra blankets I have in my closet. I’ll see if the church has any straw mats and extra blankets tomorrow. I can’t have you all sleeping on the ground out ther
e.”

  Mamá puts her hand on Tía’s shoulder. “This is so generous of you, Cristina. We showed up with no warning. The revolution was becoming too dangerous. The villistas wouldn’t have hesitated to break down the doors, steal our things, take the boys or worse . . . the girls. We couldn’t risk it. Adán and Emilio are crossing the border with the wagon and our things, or at least what we managed to load up. Francisca’s husband René will try to sell the herd. Then we’ll have enough money to find a place of our own.”

  “Will you settle in Texas permanently? I can’t imagine you’d want to leave the ranch after all the years it’s been in the family.”

  I hold my breath.

  “We’ll see. My hope is to go back to Mariposa when it’s safe, when the fighting is over,” Mamá says. “We had a good life there. And as you can see, Tomás is not with us, and he’s not with Adán either. He’s in Mariposa with Francisca. He was too ill to travel. He had a very bad reaction to a scorpion sting. When he is well enough, we’ll go back for him. I pray it doesn’t take too long. Francisca and René stayed behind to care for his mother and younger siblings. They’ll keep an eye on Abuelito. All of them are staying in an old house René’s uncle used to own, far from town.”

  “I’m sorry, Maríaelena,” she says, reaching out and touching Mamá’s hand. “You must be sick with worry, but you’ll see them all before too long. I’m sure of it.”

  “Now eat, everyone!”

  Mamá smiles brightly in the dimly lit room.

  “Tía? Do you mind if I take my suitcase to the room where I’ll be sleeping?” I ask.

  “Of course, not,” Tía answers. “It’s the first room on the right. Leticia is on my bed, so the room’s empty.” She points down a narrow hallway.

  The tiny room, the size of Mamá’s and Papá’s bathroom at home has an armoire but no other furniture. I stack my clothes and a few toiletries in a corner near the window. My doll, Belinda, stays inside the suitcase. I latch the buckles with a click-click, cinch the belt and slide the suitcase into the armoire, as far as it will go. Now what do I do?