Evangelina Takes Flight

by Diana J. Noble

  My breaths come in short choppy waves. I shouldn’t be with this boy unaccompanied by a chaperone and, even worse, a boy who’s not Mexican! Would Papá be angry if he knew I was out here with a Lebanese boy?

  We step outside into the blasting sun. I follow him down the stairs and across the road.

  “There’s a place we can go down here. It’s not very far,” he says, pointing to a large, flat rock surrounded by knee-high grass and dandelions with white, fluffy tops.

  He sits down, grabs my hand and pulls me to sit down too. I quickly fold my hands on my lap. The side of his leg touches the side of mine.

  “Evangelina, I’m sorry they teased you. There was no reason for them to treat you like that. I still get teased, and I’ve been in this country three years. We moved to Seneca only a year ago. Where did your family come from?”

  I keep my eyes down. “English no good,” I say, embarrassed.

  He turns toward me and lifts my chin with his fingertips. Dear Jesus! He’s touching my face!

  “Don’t be ashamed. I understand what you’re going through. You’re smart. You just need more time to learn the language. It will come, I promise. I can help if you want.” His eyes hold mine for a few seconds, then glance away.

  I suck in my breath and touch his hand lightly. “Thank you.”

  His skin is rough, but everything else about him is warm and safe.

  Mrs. Abbott calls out. “Selim, Evangelina, no one gave you permission to leave the building! Class is starting! Now!”

  “We should go inside,” Selim says as he helps me up.

  We walk into the classroom, and he runs to his desk and pulls out some bread wrapped in a white cloth. “Here,” he says, arm extended. The long muscles in his forearm move in tiny waves. “You never got to eat your lunch. Take this. I’m sorry it’s not much.”

  “Get in your seat, Mister Njaim! You’re already in enough trouble with me for taking . . . taking . . . that girl outside,” Mrs. Abbott scolds. She still doesn’t know my name.

  The eyes of every student are on us. Rosemary scowls at me hatefully, but I don’t care. I just touched a boy’s hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Separate the Inferior

  November 11, 1911

  A steady stream of horses clip clop down the road, their riders on their way somewhere, maybe to work or a restaurant for a cup of coffee or the bank or a store or even home. I’ve caught myself saying, “I’m going home” or “I left my coat at home” or “When we get home, we’ll have to . . .” Tía Cristina and Tío Mario’s home is starting to feel like my own home. I guess home is not so much a place, a particular house or city. It’s where the people you love are.

  I sit under an orange tree in a small park across the street from the school. Our school day routine is predictable. First, we write spelling words and make sentences with them. We learn about American history and lots about the great state of Texas! We’ve drawn the map of Texas at least ten times and filled in all the big cities.

  Missus Abbot never mentions the war in Mexico. I think she should, but I don’t say anything. It’s not even history; it’s happening right now. Stories of the war cover the front page of The Seneca Herald with photographs of President Díaz and Francisco Madero and Emiliano Zapata. Madero just won the presidential election, breaking the Díaz dictatorship, but Missus Abbot must not think it’s important.

  After lunch comes science and arithmatic. We foreigners go downstairs. That means me, Alfonso, Selim, an Irish boy named Patty, a few younger Mexican girls, Beatriz and Anna and two other Mexican boys who just moved here. The Negro sisters Fanny and Jinny left town. One day they were here, and the next day they were gone. Their brother Selby followed an Anglo lady home, trying to sell her some beads his mother made, and went back the next day to try again. The Anglo lady’s father came out the front door and shot him like an eggstealing coyote. I asked Papá one night at dinner about it. He said he hadn’t heard anything, but he looked sideways across the room at Mamá when he said it. I barely slept that night. Poor Fanny and Jinny. I wish I could have told them how sorry I was.

  Alfonso is the one I talk to most at school. That is, he talks to me the most. That boy can talk! Selim talks to me, too, but he makes me so nervous, I can hardly reply. I mostly smile and nod yes at whatever he says. My English has gotten much better though, so I’m working up the courage to say something to him. He really looks at me when he talks, like he’s studying me. I wouldn’t be surprised if I floated away next time he does that. He brought me a daisy the other day. I pressed it between the pages of my Texas history book, right after we drew the outline of the great state of Texas again and wrote in the state flower (bluebonnet), state tree (pecan) and two famous Texans (Sam Houston and James Polk).

  Our afternoon teacher, Missus Clayton, teaches us to say the pledge of allegiance, how to set the table, brush our teeth, wash clothes and other things that “build character.” Last week she said, “Your parents’ generation is already lost, but by teaching you I can save the next generation of foreigners who come here, uninvited.” Or that’s what Alfonso said she said. I told this to Mamá.

  She responded, “M’ija, you are already a person of strong character, and that woman is too stupid to see it.”

  I never heard Mamá talk like that before.

  Mostly I like learning. I look forward to going to school. Of course, I also like Selim, and he’s at school, but it’s my secret. Not even Elsa knows, and Mamá and Papá would not approve. He’s an older boy, plus he’s Lebanese. I have to marry a Mexican. But, what if I fall in love with someone from England, or Poland, or Lebanon or even the United States?

  It must almost be time for class to start. More children file into the yard out front and run around. Sparse grass covers the ground around the building. A large oak tree stands on one side and a pecan tree on the other. Pecans dot the ground. I cross the road, make my way to the tree, bend down, scoop up some nuts and drop them in my pocket. Mamá will love these for her apple empanadas. We had lots of pecans and walnuts at the rancho. This is only one tree. We must have had thirty.

  “Whatcha got there?” a boy shouts from across the yard.

  My heart jumps. Does he think I’m stealing? I look up, but he’s not talking to me.

  “Come here and find out,” Rosemary orders. She stands in front of the schoolhouse steps as the flouncy layers of her sunshine yellow dress flutter in the breeze. “It’s very important business.”

  Her blonde ponytail forms one solid tube-curl. A white and yellow striped bow clips on each side of her head. She cups one hand next to her mouth and screeches, “Come’n, get one!”

  Kids clamor around her and hold out their hands. I grab another handful of nuts, drop them in my other pocket, walk towards her and hold out my hand.

  “Hah! You don’t get one of these,” she sneers. “This is about you, not for you, you dummy!”

  Hearing what this big mouth has to say is one disadvantage of learning English.

  Alfonso sneaks up behind her, snatches a paper from her hand, runs ahead, turns around and sticks his tongue out at her.

  “You filthy animal!” she squawks. “You’re nothing but a dirty, stupid, Mexican. My father is going to kick you out of this school. You just wait!”

  Samantha and Judith quickly rush to Rosemary’s side. Their perfect curls match Rosemary’s, as if they planned it.

  “Don’t you mind him,” Judith soothes.

  Samantha puts her arm around Rosemary’s shoulder. “He’ll get his due,” she assures loudly enough for us to hear. “Don’t they know your father has a lot of say around here? Let’s go. They’re not good enough to share the same air with us.”

  “Yeah!” Judith jeers. “Go back to Mexico! We don’t want your germs!”

  Alfonso glances over the note and hands it to me. “Look at this,” he says. “Can you believe it?”

  I try to read it, but give up part way. “You take it. I can’t read all of
it. What does it say?”

  “Okay, I’ll read it to you.” He clears his throat. “‘Attention . . . something of Seneca.’” His face scrunches up. “I can’t read this word,” he says, pointing to the word “citizens” on the note. I don’t know what it means either. “‘Town Hall Meeting Wednesday Night, 7 o’clock pm,” he continues. “‘Seneca Courthouse. Topic: Separate the Inferior. No More Mexicans, Negroes or Other Foreigners in Seneca Schools. Join Us for this Important Discussion Led by Frank Silver, Respected Business Owner and Seneca County Council member!’”

  “What does it mean?”

  I start to chew the nail on my thumb but think again. I want my nails to look nice, if Selim ever looks at my hands. Maybe I’ll never bite my nails again.

  “Do you really want to know?” Selim answers.

  I whip around. He’s right behind me.

  “Hello,” I say shyly. “How is you?”

  “Fine, just fine,” he answers. “The note says they don’t want foreigners in this school. Don’t worry about Rosemary. She’s just jealous of you.”

  “Jealous?” I ask Alfonso. “What does that mean?”

  “Celosa,” Alfonso translates.

  “Jealous? How come?” I ask, puzzled.

  “Because you’re so pretty,” Selim replies, turns and runs up the school steps.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Fraud

  November 13, 1911

  Thirty-two bottles, canisters and jars of varying sizes and colors line the shelves next to Doctor Taylor’s desk. I counted them, twice. I bring each one down carefully and set them, in order, on the white marble countertop of the little table against the wall. A thin layer of dust covers the shelves, except for the perfectly clean, rectangular and round spaces where the medicines sat. I swipe a cloth across each shelf, dust the bottles one at a time and put them back in their original places. Vapo Cresoline. Anderson’s Chill Tonic. Dr. R.H. Jensen’s Pin Worm Syrup. McNeil Dyspepsia Bitters. Blood Purifier and Nerve Tonic. Halliday’s Cough Balsam. Old Nanny Bickers’ Sarsaparilla. Castor’s Cure for Gout and Rheumatism. And many more I don’t understand. The first week I started working here, when I couldn’t even make a sentence in English, I wrote a list for Alfonso so he could tell me what “sarsaparilla,” “gout,” “rheumatism,” “bickers,” “purifier” and “balsam” mean. He looked at me like I was asking the dumbest question he ever heard, shrugged and ran off to climb a tree.

  There are many other words I don’t understand around here. When I hear things like, “chisel,” “forceps,” “pulsograph” and “pyrometer,” I get lost in the conversation. Of course, I’m not part of the conversation, but I do listen. If I’m quiet, Doctor Taylor lets me do my cleaning in the next room over while he talks to a patient, listens to their heart or looks in their ears. I watch for the signal. When he raises his hand, it’s time to leave. When no patients are in the room, he shows me the equipment and explains what each thing is used for. I’ve held a few in my hand. I even looked inside his microscope at a bug’s wing. Doctor Taylor says I’m smart.

  On the wall above the desk hangs a paper with fancy writing from the school he went to and a photo of him and his wife on their wedding day. He’s gone today, off seeing a patient, a retired doctor two towns away, so this is my chance to study the photos.

  He looks so young standing in his suit with the flower on his lapel, his hair perfectly parted and slicked down. His bride sits beside him on a small, tufted sofa with a rounded back and wooden legs carved like paws. She leans slightly so her head and shoulder nearly touch his side. A bouquet of flowers rests in her lap. A billowy veil falls softly around her shoulders. I wonder how long it was after this photo was taken that she and their baby died. Her beautiful face with the light eyes and sweet, barely-there smile make my heart ache. All these years later, Doctor Taylor has never remarried.

  The doctor helps me with my English and even lets me look at the pictures in his medical books. He doesn’t use them anymore, so he lent them to me, to study. I’ve already memorized the bones in the human skeleton on page eight of The Everyday Medicine Series, Volume I. Now I’m starting on the muscle groups. Doctor Taylor said he’ll quiz me in a week. Maybe I’ll be a doctor someday. Actually, it was Doctor Taylor’s idea. The first Mexican in Seneca to become a doctor! That would make my family so proud, especially Abuelito! And whoever heard of a girl doctor?

  “Evangelina, are you there?” Doctor Taylor calls from the top of the stairs.

  “Yes, I here.” I scurry away from the photos. “I dust your office.”

  The doctor thumps down the stairs and walks briskly toward me. “It’s ‘I am here,’ and ‘I am dusting your office.’”

  “I am dusting your office,” I repeat.

  “Okay, no more English lessons. Evangelina, you will not believe what I learned today!” He rubs his hands together in excitement.

  “What?”

  “You know Rosemary’s father, Mister Silver, the owner of the Funeral Home, the one who’s speaking tonight at the Town Hall?” He looks at his watch. “Less than two hours from now.”

  “He sick?”

  “I’m sure he’s fine. But I went to see old Doc Hicks today. Poor Doc’s got painful joints and a deep cough. Gave him liniment for his aches and pains and vapor oil for the cough. He can barely catch his breath. Might be more serious than a cough, so I’ll check up on him in a week. I bet he wouldn’t mind if you came with me. I told him all about you. You could learn a few things.”

  “Thank you, but what he say about Rosemary’s father?”

  “Yes, yes. I was getting to that. I was talking to the doctor about the Town Hall meeting tonight and what a bitter, hateful man Frank Silver has become. Some in this town see his money and boastfulness and follow him around like sheep, refusing to think for themselves. Such a shame. Admiring a man with an ego the size of Texas! Anyway, I was complaining about Frank Silver and what a bully he is, and the doctor told me a very interesting story about Mister Silver.”

  “Tell me!”

  “Doctor Hicks’ father was a judge in Astor County. Died some thirty years ago. After he passed, Doc Hicks went through all his father’s papers and found something, something he kept all this time. He gave it to me today, and I have it right here,” he pats his coat pocket.

  “What?”

  “It’s a copy of Frank Silver’s birth certificate issued by the local church in Astor City. Only, Frank Silver’s name was not Frank Silver when he was born. It was . . . it is Francisco Rubén Silva.”

  “No understand.”

  “Don’t you see?” he pulls the paper out of his pocket and unfolds it. “His mother was Elena Victoria Cruz from Spain, and his father was José María Francisco Silva from Nopales, Mexico. Can you believe it? That man hates anyone with brown skin, spits his venom at anyone different, but he’s the son of foreigners himself! Must have changed his name.”

  “How you know that his birth paper?”

  “Frank Silver managed to track it down years ago. Threatened Doc Hicks with closing his business if he told anyone. But Doc Hicks wouldn’t give it to him. Filed it away.”

  “So Rosemary is part Mexican, like me?”

  “Yes, and the people of Seneca deserve to know the man with the big opinion is a hypocrite.”

  “Hypocrite?”

  “That man’s a fraud. A phony. Someone who pretends to be something other than what he is. When he spouts off his nonsense at the Town Hall tonight, I’ll be right behind him to share the news. And you must come.”

  “I ask my parents,” I respond excitedly. I grab my shawl, run up the basement stairs, step outside and hop down the front steps.

  Papá sits in Tía’s kitchen.

  “Please!” I plead.

  “Why would I let you go, only to be the subject of that man’s hatred?” Papá folds his hands resolutely on top of the kitchen table.

  “Papá,” I sit in a chair opposite him. “Doctor Taylor got important inf
ormation today. He’s going to share it at the Town Hall, and he wants me there. And, I want to go.”

  “What information, m’ija? What could be so important that Doctor Taylor would want you to hear that man’s despicable lies?”

  “Señor Silver is the son of foreigners.”

  “What?” Tía Cristina asks, stunned. She stands in the doorway between the hall and the kitchen.

  “Oh, Tía, I didn’t see you there!” I exclaim. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “No, I was already awake. I came to get Leticia some pineapple juice. We’re reading a book in my bedroom. Tito is sleeping. What did you say about Frank Silver?”

  “His given name is Francisco Silva. His father was from Nopales, and his mother was from Spain. He only calls himself Frank Silver.”

  “Did you say Frank Silver is part Mexican?” Mamá walks in from the living room.

  “Yes, that’s what I said,” I beam. “Doctor Taylor has his birth paper to prove it.”

  “I’m going with you to that meeting.” Mamá steps away and returns with a coat around her shoulders. “I met that man once,” she says to Papá. “He was heartless and arrogant.”

  “I’m coming, too,” Tía adds. “My children deserve to get an education like any other child in this town. We are all God’s children. A church-going man like him should know that.”

  “Are you feeling up to it?” my mother questions.

  It’s only been the past month that Tía has been showing signs of her old self, singing to Leticia, smiling at the baby, making meals.