Chapter Fourteen
Relief
June 21, 1911
It’s been three weeks since we arrived at Tía’s tiny house, which I’m sure was fine for Tía, Tío and Leticia, but with five extra people, we’re bumping into each other. We’re starting to get more and more frustrated with each other, too. Even Mamá’s usual patience is getting tested. She’s been short-tempered and worried about everyone at home, especially Tomás. We all are.
Tío Mario is nice, but quiet. He greets us in the morning and sits down with us at meals, but he’s not good at conversation. Tía gets bigger by the day. She can’t do too much anymore. I’ve taken to washing all the dishes, because her belly sticks out so far, her hands can’t reach the sink. Without all my usual chores to do at home, I’ve done a lot more praying and asking for forgiveness for my sins, for leaving Tomás when I was supposed to protect him. Why is all this happening to us? I ask the Holy Father, but so far, He hasn’t answered.
The neighbors are friendly. Most of them have come over to introduce themselves. I’ve wandered around the neighborhood and talked to people, but not very much. I stay at Tía’s most of the time. I’m not feeling very social. Besides, it’s mostly boys around here, so Enrique has plenty of new friends. The few girls I’ve seen are much younger than me. Thank goodness for Elsa.
Enrique sets a pillowcase full of walnuts between us and produces a long nail from his pants pocket. We’re so bored, we crack nuts to pass the time. The sun sits low in the eastern sky. It’s only nine in the morning and already, the warm damp air has affixed the underside of our legs to the wooden bench. If it’s anything like Mariposa in late June, it’ll give way to choking heat by midday.
Enrique grabs an old cracked ceramic pot near the top step of the back porch and drags it over. “I’ll open them with the nutcracker, and you pick them out with the nail. It’ll be quicker that way.” He goes back inside and returns with a kitchen towel he lays inside the dirty pot. “Put them in here.”
“Helloooo?” a deep voice comes from the front of the house.
Papá!
Enrique and I spring up off the bench and practically trip over each other as we run inside. Elsa, Mamá and Domingo emerge from the bedroom.
“Papá!”
“Adán!”
“You made it!”
Our voices tumble together in a happy chorus.
Enrique slaps him on the shoulder and beams. “Where have you been, and why did it take you so long? We were starting to worry. I mean, the girls were starting to worry.”
“It’s a long story, m’ijo. I’ll tell you all about the trip after we unload the wagon and clean up. I don’t think I’ve ever been so filthy.”
“We missed you!” Elsa says.
“We missed you, too,” Papá says. “But there’s no more reason to worry. We’re here! It was a long trip, and . . .”
“Let me show you the house. I sleep back here,” Domingo points down the hall. “I’ll show you. Come on,” he says, pulling Papá by the hand.
“Hold on there, m’ijo. We have to unpack. Will you help me?”
“Awww, can I show you later?” Domingo asks, undaunted. “I sleep with Elsa and Evangelina, but I want to sleep with the boys on the porch!”
“Of course, m’ijo. You can show me everything soon. Now, let me get a look at the rest of you.”
Papá wraps one arm around Elsa’s shoulders and his other arm around Mamá’s. He leans in and whispers something in her ear. The most captivating smile I’ve seen since we left home spreads across her face.
“Thank you, Lord, for bringing them back to us,” Mamá says as she fingers the rosary around her neck. “I don’t know how much longer I could have waited. You can’t know how relieved I am to see you.” She shifts her gaze toward the front door. “Where’s Emilio?”
“He got a job. Can you believe it? Such good news!”
“No!” Mamá turns pale.
“How could he get a job so soon?” Enrique asks.
“When we crossed the border, men crowded all around and offered us jobs—in the mines, the fields, the cannery, a brick factory. There were tables lined up right there to fill out paperwork. As many as twenty men who crossed around the same time we did boarded a train and headed off to work somewhere. That’s what they wanted, right? To escape the war and find work. They were very fortunate.”
“And what about Emilio?” Mamá twists the dishtowel in her hands.
“The New Mexico copper mines. The man said Emilio could make ten dollars a week. How about that? Ten dollars a week at his age, and the work came to him! One man next to us said he’d gladly take the job because he only made twelve cents a day when he worked on an hacienda near Mexico City.”
“I only wish he could have come here first before he had to go,” Mamá says. “I never imagined I wouldn’t see him again.”
“Of course, you’ll see him again! I can’t say when, but he’ll get here eventually. He knew you’d be upset about this, but the offer was just too good. He’ll send money every month. We’re going to need it, Maríaelena. They tried to persuade me, too, but I’ll get out tomorrow and start looking for work. There’s bound to be something closer to home. I mean, somewhere in Seneca or nearby.”
“How about me? I’m old enough and I’m strong, stronger than most fifteen-year-olds. Do you think they’d want me for the mines?” Enrique asks.
“Not yet, m’ijo, but your time will come soon enough. If your father finds work, I will need you at home,” Mamá warns.
“I could go for just a . . .”
“That’s enough, Enrique,” Mamá scolds.
Enrique wants so desperately to grow up. As for me, sometimes there’s nothing more I want than to stay a girl, even travel back in time to when I was seven or eight. Naive and untroubled with my family at our ranch on the river. Growing up feels complicated and stressful. Being an adult scares me, so I try not to think about it.
Tía Cristina steps out of her bedroom holding Leticia’s hand and stops mid-stride. Both have wet hair from a bath.
“¡Hola, Adán! I thought I heard a man’s voice! How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you . . .” He says, looking down and gesturing toward his dusty clothes and shoes. “. . . a little tired and very dirty! I’m sorry we arrived unannounced and uninvited.”
“I’m just happy to see you. It’s been years.” She shakes her head. “It’s such a tragedy what’s happening back home, but not much of a surprise. You’re welcome here as long as you like. I’m sorry Mario is not here to greet you. He went to the hierbería to get some chamomile. As you can see, we’re expecting a baby anytime, and I’ve had an upset stomach the past few days. He’ll be back soon. He can help you with the wagon. Is it out in front? There isn’t much room out there for a wagon.”
“I left the wagon a few lots down in front of that empty barn, or at least I think it’s empty. I don’t know if we can hitch the animals there for long. Now that we’re here, I can see it won’t be practical to keep them. I’ll see about selling them. There’s a load of things that need to be stored, I’m afraid. Is there any place nearby . . . until we find our own place? Of course, you and Mario are welcome to use anything we have. We brought pots and pans, furniture, clothes, blankets, tools . . . you’re welcome to it all. And may I offer my congratulations . . . on the baby, I mean.”
“Papá?” I step out from behind Enrique. I can’t wait any longer for my turn to hug him.
“Evangelina, my sweet girl. How are you? I didn’t even see you behind your brother. I’ve missed you!” He says, wrapping his arms around me and squeezing tight. My head falls forward into the space between his arm and his side. I rock back and forth from one foot to the other, swaying with him gently.
“I’ve been having nightmares and praying for your safe return and . . . and . . . I’m just so glad you’re here!” I wipe away the taste of salty tears.
“Let me see. Hmmm . . . you’re as pretty
as ever, but all those tears cloud your beautiful eyes.” He pulls out a handkerchief from his back pocket, holds it up and grimaces. “I’d offer this to you, but I it’s got a week’s worth of grime on it. It practically stands up by itself.”
“Adán, what have you been up to with that handkerchief? It looks like you dragged it behind you the whole time.” Mamá takes it gingerly from Papá’s hand and holds it by the corner as if it’s covered with spiders.
“Oh, you know, normal man things like pulling roasted squirrels, prairie dogs, snakes and rats off a stick and things like that. It’s been a hard trip. We were hungry and had many long nights guarding the wagon. Even had to fend off thieves who tried to take the mules in the middle of the night . . . but we managed. We’re here!”
“Oh, Papá, you poor thing, that sounds awful!” Elsa exclaims.
“I’ll wash it later, maybe more than once,” Mamá says with a big grin on her face. “Let’s go outside and unload a few things. Tonight, we’ll celebrate your safe arrival.”
Chapter Fifteen
Hopeless
July 1, 1911
I stand in someone else’s front yard, on my birthday, in a town that doesn’t seem to want me here. I ventured out beyond our little community once and smiled at a woman in a pretty pink house, but she didn’t smile back. She went inside and shut the door. And then she shut the curtains. It’s been a month since we arrived in Seneca, and nothing feels right. It’s like a lifetime of wearing comfortable, worn-in clothes made especially for you, then having to live in someone else’s too tight, too stiff and too scratchy clothes.
“I feel guilty living here,” I tell Elsa. “There isn’t enough food . . . Mamá and Papá hardly eat. Tía Cristina’s going to have that baby any time now. I’m sure we’re a burden.”
Elsa adjusts her wide-brimmed hat to shield her eyes from the harsh sun. “Papá hopes René will sell the herd in Mariposa soon. Once that happens, we’ll have enough money to buy our own house or rent one, since we may not have to be here very long,” she says optimistically as she kicks the dirt with the tip of her lace-up boot.
“Papá said a man spit on him yesterday when he asked for work! These people think Mexicans are lazy and stupid!”
“Emilio got work right away.” She twists a lock of her hair in her fingers. “He’ll send money when he can.” She looks away, but I see her wipe away a tear.
“We have to be honest about this. I don’t know how we’re going to survive here. Papá has asked about work at ten places in town, and no one will hire him. Some won’t even shake his hand or close the door in his face. He left last night to go to the next town over in hopes someone there will have more kindness in their heart than in this insufferable place. Why do people in town glare at us so hatefully if they’ve never even met us? What would they do if the war was in Texas and their sons and daughters and fathers and sisters were being kidnapped and killed? Hmmm? What would they do?”
“Give it more time before you decide ‘we won’t survive here,’” she says, sniffling.
Elsa sits down cross-legged on a small patch of grass and picks a dandelion with a fluffy white top. She twirls it slowly between her fingers, tilts her head and admires its round perfection, then blows and watches the tiny puffs float, dip and turn like miniature dancers that disappear into the vast sky.
I shut my mouth. What else is there to say? No use in more complaining. I keep telling myself to stop, but I have a habit of saying what I think. It’s a terrible fault of mine. I’ll pray about it some more, but lately, it seems like the more I pray, the less God listens. For now, we’ll just have to make the best of it with Tía Cristina and Tío Mario. She’s my mother’s only sister, but I only met her once before. She visited when I was five or six. We played with dolls, even though she was at least fifteen at the time. I’m sure she wanted to do something else, but she played with me anyway. I pretended she was a princess. Her shiny black hair fell to her waist and her skin was pale as rice. Her eyes were so black, the pupils melted into the darkness around them. She played guitar and sang. Her voice was like an angel’s. I’ve even heard it in my dreams and imagined she’d sing at my wedding someday. I must ask if she’ll sing for me again.
My stomach grumbles and interrupts my daydream. My last meal was yesterday’s lunch. I skipped dinner— didn’t feel like eating, plus there wasn’t much food to start with. I look down at the large patches of dirt between the clumps of grass where tiny red ants scurry along cracks in the hardened ground.
“Papá mentioned school again. My English is not very good, but Tía has been practicing with me. I understand it better than I speak it. Same as you, Elsa. Do you think the Americans will laugh at me?”
Elsa puts her arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. “Of course not. Try to think positively. Let’s go inside and see if Mamá and Tía Cristina need help in the kitchen. They’re making buñuelos today.”
“Good, because I’m starved!”
I follow Elsa up the porch steps.
“Do you smell them? They smell like home.” Her face brightens. “Hurry up, Evangelina.”
My nose fills with the smell of the crispy, golden dough, all hot and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar.
“Hey, Elsa, you are coming to school with me, aren’t you?”
“Evangelina, I need to find a job. Girls my age can work in Texas.”
“Oh . . . I see. You go in. I’ll be there soon.” I fake a smile. “I have something I need to do.”
Bad news on my birthday, on top of an already dismal situation. I’ve only had a tutor. I don’t know what to expect at a real school, but I thought Elsa and I would figure it out together. This means Enrique won’t be going to school either. Domingo is too young for school. So that leaves me. Once Tomás joins us, he’ll probably start school, and we can walk together. I’ll take care of him when he gets here—better than I ever did before.
“I’ll take better care of you, Tomás,” I declare to no one.
I head inside, eat buñuelos and rice pudding Mamá and Tía made special for my birthday. I thank them and make a wish to turn the clock back a year. That would be the best birthday gift of all.
I lie next to Elsa and Domingo, the three of us like logs tied together floating down a river. A hint of light filters through the old sheets nailed above the window to keep the dust and the mosquitoes out. I imagine it’s five or six o’clock in the morning.
“Elsa! Elsa, get up!” Mamá cries out.
I jump out of bed, startled. I peek around the doorframe and see Mamá in the hallway. Her thick brown hair, pulled back with a scarf, hangs halfway down her back, her dark brown eyes look glossy and strange in the muddled light.
“Elsa is asleep. Mamá is everything . . .”
My eyes move away from her face to her wet nightgown and apron smeared with blood. I open my mouth, but my voice abandons me.
She grabs her shawl off the back of a living room chair, shoves it into my arms and throws the front door open.
“Your father and Enrique aren’t back yet. I need you to go into town to the market plaza. You’ll have to go on foot. There’s a brick building next to the hat shop. Look for a green sign with white letters. It says ‘Doctor Taylor’ on it. Tell him to come immediately. It’s an emergency.”
“What is it?”
“Tía Cristina is in labor, and she’s in trouble. Go quickly!”
I throw the shawl around my shoulders and lift my nightgown just enough to pull on my boots, pound down the steps, throw open the gate and run. I round the corner and a man in a horse and carriage approaches from the other direction.
“¡Ayúdenme!”
Oh, what’s the word? What’s the word? My brain spins. “Elp!” It finally comes to me.
The man slows his horse, stares at me, turns his gaze back to the road and continues on.
“Go on, Annabelle,” he prompts his horse and passes me by. I pick up speed and fly down the road.
The market st
alls, usually filled with boxes of colorful fruits and vegetables, displays of cowboy shirts, belts, fresh-baked pies, dried beans, books and confectionaries, sit empty. I whirl around looking for the doctor’s office. In the pale morning light I make out the saloon, the barber shop and a ladies clothing store. There it is, next to the post office and hat shop. A small brick house with a green sign over the front steps: “Doctor Russell Taylor.”
I pound on the door. No answer. I pound louder. “Elp, elp, plees!”
A twinkle of light appears through the narrow rectangular windows on each side of the door. A round woman with a long gray braid and white nightcap answers the door. She clenches her robe tightly in front.
“What on earth sends you here this early in the morning? The doctor’s office is closed!”
“Mi tía . . . m . . . m . . . m . . . my . . . ant! Elp, plees!” I plead.
“We don’t treat yer kine. Go fine one-a yer Mexican witch doctors to help you!” she commands, then closes the door.
I pound on the door again.
A muffled male voice rings out. The man’s voice again, this time louder. The door opens a crack, and the old woman peers out. A tall blonde man pulls open the door.
“Hello, can I help you?” he says.
The old woman folds her arms, steps back and says, “Don’t treat dem folks, son. People ’round here will be mighty angry with you.”
“I’ll take my chances. Now, young lady, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“Me ant ees . . . seek . . . mmmm . . .” I search for the word. “Sangre. Plees, señor, elp me!”
The doctor holds up his hand. “Hold on,” he says turning and disappearing as the old woman stomps up the stairs.
He reemerges. “Can you tell me where to go?”
I nod and follow him around back. A sleek black horse stands in a tiny outbuilding with one stall. “Climb on ole Tilly here.”
The doctor bends over and weaves his fingers together to make a step. I put my left foot in and swing my right leg up and over.
Evangelina Takes Flight Page 9
