“I’m faster than any Apache,” Miguel boasted. “I could get away, especially if I was riding a stallion.”
“You’re dreaming, Miguelito,” Esteban said, again calling him by the childish nickname.
“I’m not Little Miguel,” he declared. “Stop treating me like a baby!” He kicked his heels into the mare’s flanks, and she loped ahead. Miguel’s hat flapped against his back, and his hair blew in the hot breeze. With his brothers behind him, Miguel could at least pretend he was on his own.
Chapter 2
An Unwelcome Visitor
Miguel looked ahead as he approached the ranch. Horses stood in the flat-fenced corrals that were built close to the spacious barn. Two cactus-wood ramadas made a shady covering to keep the hay and water troughs cool.
One of the ranch hands stood in the center of one corral, leading a young stallion through its paces. The pepper-gray yearling had a gentle disposition, and Miguel had been visiting it in the stalls, offering a piece of fruit or a sugar cube from his hand. It had come to recognize Miguel and let him rub its nose as he spoke to it quietly. How he would love to call that horse his own.
Farther out, a stand of tall cottonwood trees clustered near a watering hole, their green leaves stirring in the breeze. The desert scrub that stretched to the horizon was all part of the family’s land.
As the brothers tied their horses to a corral rail, Miguel saw an unfamiliar wagon in the shade of the barn. It was loaded with bundles lashed together with a web of ropes.
“Why didn’t you tell me we had visitors?” Miguel asked, but his brothers ignored him, removing their horses’ saddles. Ruben began pumping water into a trough.
Miguel’s thoughts rambled. Maybe it’s a family from a big city—like Chicago, or even Philadelphia, Miguel thought. There were so many possibilities. Maybe they have a boy my age!
With no hotels in Tucson, and few ranches in the area, the Abranos often welcomed travelers to their home. Miguel loved meeting people from faraway places and hearing about the towns they had left behind. He would close his eyes and imagine what it might be like living someplace completely different than a ranch in the Arizona desert.
If I become a priest, he realized, the church will surely send me to live in a new place. It was an exciting thought, although his family wouldn’t agree.
Esteban and Ruben started to rub down their stallions, but Miguel couldn’t wait to meet the travelers. He raced to the house, his boots clattering on the wooden veranda.
“Hey!” Esteban shouted. “Don’t leave Alma like this.”
Miguel was tired of following his brothers’ orders. “I’ll take care of her soon enough,” he called. “She can wait.”
He hurried off, pushing aside a nagging sense of guilt. Papá always said caring for your horse came before anything else. He believed that since the horses worked hard for us, we owed them nothing less than the best treatment.
“Don’t think we’re going to take care of her for you,” Esteban retorted. Miguel ignored his brothers and let the smell of frying bimuelos lead him into the kitchen. Mamá and Carmella were dropping batter into sizzling skillets. Long white aprons protected their dresses, but they stood back from the spattering oil. Carmella’s hair hung down her back in a thick black braid. Mamá’s wavy hair was streaked with gray and was pinned up tightly at the back of her head. A damp ringlet fell across her forehead.
“Ah, Miguelito,” Mamá greeted him. “I miss you when you are in school all day.”
“I like being in town,” Miguel said, snitching a cooling pastry coated in cinnamon and sugar. “Why, just today, Doc Meyer set up a window display with two big colored glass balls.”
He held his arms in a huge arc to show his mother how large they were. “The whole street looks like a fiesta.”
“No me digas—you don’t say?” Mamá marveled. “Let’s ask Doc Meyer to tell us about them when he comes for dinner tonight.”
Miguel polished off the crispy bimuelo and planted a sugary kiss on his mother’s cheek. He poured a glass of cool water from an earthen olla. “Who’s visiting?” he asked.
Before Mamá could answer, Papá came into the kitchen with a travel-worn man. Miguel couldn’t help staring at the stranger’s bristly gray-flecked sideburns and the sparse beard that sprouted from his chin like sagebrush. While Papá wore a pale gray pinstriped suit, the visitor was dressed in black, with a round hat, a long coat jacket, and threadbare pants. A slim black ribbon of wrinkled silk served as a tie against his dusty white shirt. The man’s clothes were far too heavy for the hot weather.
“Señor Jacob Franck, please meet my wife, Doña Elena,” Papá said. “And this is my youngest son, Miguel, and our housekeeper, Carmella.”
The man looked solemnly at Mamá and bobbed his head. “It is most pleasing to meet you, Señora,” he said in a raspy voice with an accent much like Doc Meyer’s. He nodded at Carmella, and then turned in Miguel’s direction and held out his hand. “Young man,” he said. Miguel shook the man’s hand reluctantly.
Mamá wiped her hands on her apron. “Why are you bringing guests into the kitchen?” she scolded Papá. “I was just about to send a tray of pastries and some fresh lemonade into the parlor.”
“We’re heading outside to sit under the ramada,” Papá said. “It’s cooler in the shade.”
“Do you have your family with you?” Miguel asked, looking toward the parlor door.
“Señor Franck is traveling the territory alone, selling housewares,” Papá explained. He turned to the stranger. “I’m sure it’s a lonely life.”
Mamá shook her head sympathetically. “We are pleased to welcome you to our home,” she said.
“Señor Franck will be with us for several days,” Papá said. “By the time he moves on, there won’t be many ranches around without a new iron skillet or at least a packet of sewing needles.” Miguel could barely hide his disappointment. He had expected a family of new settlers and had hoped to make a new friend.
Carmella filled two glasses with pale lemonade, set them on a tray with the platter of pastries, and carried it outside.
“Our friend Charlie Meyer is joining us for dinner tonight,” Papá remarked to the guest. “He is a compatriot of yours, all the way from Germany.”
A shadow of worry crossed the peddler’s face. “I hope he won’t mind sharing the table with a poor Jew.” Miguel stiffened. Señor Franck was an Israelite!
“Don’t worry,” Papá reassured him. “In Arizona Territory all are welcome.”
“Not every rancher is so kind,” the peddler said. “Sometimes people are afraid if a stranger looks or sounds a little different. And me, I am different both ways!”
“As long as you’re not an Indian,” Papá joked, “you will be accepted.”
“Jews and Indians,” Señor Franck mused. “We have many things in common, especially since we are not like the settlers. Maybe the natives understand this and so they don’t bother me when I travel.” He gave a faint smile, revealing a row of crooked teeth. “Although it might just be the shiny buttons in my wagon. If I give them a few polished buttons, they are as happy as children with the peppermints!”
Papá chuckled, but Miguel heard nothing amusing in the man’s words. He was different for more than his strange clothes and hair, and his grating voice. He was an Israelite, and yet Papá had invited the man to share their home. Miguel’s heart raced. He was more afraid of having Señor Franck sleeping under his roof than he was of traveling across the desert alone.
Berto insisted that Israelites were devils in human form with horns sprouting from their heads. Father Ignacio said that was nothing more than a made-up story. Then why was the peddler wearing his hat indoors? Miguel stole a fearful glance at the top of the man’s head, but he could see nothing poking out of the man’s black hat except wiry hair springing in all directions.
Father Ignacio fretted over the Papago who came to Mass, yet still prayed to their own gods. At least they tried to fol
low the faith. The peddler was far worse. He didn’t believe in the church teachings at all.
Maybe I can bring Señor Franck to Mass on Sunday, Miguel thought. If I can show him how wrongheaded his beliefs are, it might prove I have a calling. He followed his father and the peddler outside and stood while they sat on carved wooden chairs under the ramada. Señor Franck took a sip of lemonade and reached for a bimuelo with gnarled fingers. He smiled with pleasure at the first taste.
“Nothing better than Mamá’s cooking, eh?” he said to Miguel. “Even if you are growing faster than the agave stalk that shoots up before our eyes, you’re still your Mamá’s boy.”
Miguel tensed under the peddler’s steady gaze. Everything about Jacob Franck made him uneasy, from the sound of his voice to his odd appearance.
Miguel straightened his shoulders as if to defend himself against the man’s words. “I’m turning thirteen next week,” he said.
Jacob Franck nodded enthusiastically. “In my religion, this is the age of manhood.” His eyes had a faraway look. “Back in my little village before my thirteenth year, I studied hard to become a bar mitzvah.” Miguel was puzzled. What was the peddler talking about?
“This you don’t know, eh?” the man commented. “When a Jewish boy turns thirteen, he is called up to read from our sacred Torah, reading the Hebrew words just the way they were first written down in the Old Testament. This is a big moment in life, for then he is a boy no longer. He is considered a man. It is to celebrate!”
Miguel didn’t know what a Torah was, but he didn’t much care. The peddler kept explaining. “Just as your church prays in Latin,” he said, “we pray in Hebrew, the language of the Bible. It takes a lot of study.”
Maybe Jews wrote their beliefs in Hebrew so no outsiders could understand their heathen words. Miguel looked steadily at Señor Franck. “If you’d like to come to Mass with us this Sunday, I can teach you some of the Latin prayers.”
“Miguel!” Papá scolded. “We must always respect a man’s beliefs, even when they are different from our own.”
Miguel hung his head at Papá’s rebuke. He never could seem to please his father. Couldn’t Papá see that Miguel was trying to lead Jacob Franck to the church’s teachings? Father Ignacio had dedicated his life to doing exactly that with all the non-believers, and Papá would never criticize the priest. So what had Miguel done to be scolded like that?
The peddler waved his hand nervously. “Nothing to worry, Don Mateo,” he said. “Young Miguel is just a boy and still he is learning about the world.”
Papá shook his head, and Miguel saw his father’s disappointment. No matter how hard Miguel tried to please his father, Papá always found fault with him.
Jacob Franck looked out at the vast expanse of the Abrano ranch. “How did your family come to settle here?” he asked.
Perhaps this was Miguel’s opportunity to make amends. He knew the family history perfectly from all the times that Papá had told about it since Miguel was a small boy. “Our family has bred horses on this land for more than three hundred years,” he said.
Señor Franck raised his thick eyebrows with interest. “A rich heritage,” he marveled.
“One of our ancestors came with the Spanish conquistadors,” Miguel said proudly.
Papá leaned back in his chair. “Eventually, he became a mapmaker, charting the land for the first time. King Charles gave the Abranos this land in 1540 in gratitude for that service.” He turned to Miguel. “So, mijo, did you water Alma and cool her down?”
“I’ll make sure she’s had plenty to eat,” Miguel said, avoiding a lie. He took one more bimuelo from the plate and headed to the corral. His father’s voice carried through the still air, complaining to the peddler. “When I was his age, I knew how to manage everything at the ranch. He knows horses, but he doesn’t work hard enough.”
Alma stood in the heat, her saddle still cinched tightly. Miguel hurriedly removed the saddle and shook out the blanket, setting them both on the corral railing. He pumped the trough full of fresh water and fed the mare his last bit of pastry. Miguel hoped his brothers didn’t tell Papá that he had left the mare untended in the heat. He didn’t need any more trouble today.
Alma nickered and pawed the ground as if she were complaining too. “Sorry, girl,” he apologized. She was shedding her thick winter coat, and Miguel brushed her vigorously. He was always amazed at how the horses’ coats changed color from winter to summer. Alma’s soft dark hair was turning back to a glistening chestnut.
“Why would Papá invite Jacob Franck to stay at our ranch?” he asked the horse. “That man could be dangerous.” He led Alma to her stall, removed her bridle, and filled a bucket with oats. “As soon as that peddler goes to the other ranches to sell his buttons and cloth, the entire town will know he’s staying at our place.” Miguel didn’t know if he was more worried about having an Israelite under his roof or about what Berto and Luis would say when they found out.
As the mare ate, Miguel’s thoughts turned to more practical matters. Since Papá saw that Señor Franck could travel the desert without being attacked by Apache raiders, maybe Miguel could use that to his advantage. If Papá was in a good mood at dinner, perhaps Miguel could persuade his father to let him ride to Tucson alone on Sunday morning. Maybe he’d let him take the pepper gray. Tonight might be the perfect time to ask. He would take a chance—tonight.
Chapter 3
Questions
Doc Meyer was delighted to meet a newcomer from the “Old Country,” as he called it. The two men gripped each other’s hands and began babbling in German. Miguel frowned at the harsh-sounding, foreign words.
“Is goot to hear the language of the homeland!” Jacob Franck declared. “Now the long journey is vorth the troubles.”
Miguel wondered how these guttural noises could ever sound good to anyone’s ears. When his family spoke Spanish, the words were as fluid as water rushing over a smooth rock. Now that he was going to school, he thought that even the new English words he was learning had a soft, rolling sound that tumbled out easily.
Doc Meyer saw the look on Miguel’s face and mistook it for disbelief. “You are too young to understand what it is to leave everything you have known and come to a place where no one speaks even your language.” He patted Miguel’s head as if he were a puppy. “Bless God, you should never know, Miguelito.”
“Amen,” his mother agreed. “May we always be together in this new country.” Mamá had put on a fresh dress, and filigreed silver combs held her hair in place.
“Yes,” said Papá, “a country that keeps changing around us!”
“At least our food hasn’t changed!” Mamá said with a smile. “Please come and eat.” She gestured to the dining room, and everyone filed in.
Miguel stood behind his chair, as did the others, until his parents were seated. Then each person sat at the long wooden table, its thick legs carved with spiral designs. Miguel’s hands brushed against the familiar white tablecloth, its faded embroidered flowers curling over the edges. Every Friday night Mamá set out the same cloth, and every Monday she washed it, hanging it to bleach in the Arizona sun. Before her were two silver candlesticks, which she polished to a shine every Friday morning. They looked elegant in spite of a few dents and scratches.
“These candlesticks came from Spain more than three hundred years ago,” Papá said with a note of pride in his voice. He flapped open his napkin with a flourish and settled it onto his lap. Miguel knew this was the opening for Papá to tell the family story once again. He knew it by heart, in Papá’s exact words, but didn’t dare interrupt. “Traditionally, these candlesticks were handed down to the . . .”
. . . oldest daughter in each generation. Miguel finished the sentence in his head. He imagined all the Abrano mothers who came before his, as if they were lined up one behind the other lighting candles in the very same candlesticks. What a long history they had. He wondered what stories the candlesticks would tell if only they could spea
k. Still, he didn’t see why Doc Meyer and the peddler would be interested in family stories.
“Since I had no sisters,” Papá continued, “my mother chose to give them to Elena.” He beamed at his wife. “Now we have three sons! What to do?”
“Perhaps when you get married, Esteban,” Mamá said, “we will pass them on to your wife.” She gave him an encouraging glance. “Maybe soon?”
Esteban nearly choked. “Married?” he gasped. “These candleholders are safe with you for a long time to come, Mamá.”
“I hope it’s not too much longer, mijo,” she said. “I have waited long enough for a daughter!” Mamá stood as Carmella brought a lit taper from the kitchen. As Mamá lit the thick white candles, shadows and light danced across her face.
“Lighting candles reminds me of my own mother,” Señor Franck said hesitantly. “Each Friday at sundown, she marked the start of the Sabbath with a prayer over the candle flames.”
“I had forgotten that Israelites observe the Sabbath on Saturday, and not Sunday,” Doc Meyer commented. “Different bibles, different calendar.”
Mamá turned to Señor Franck. “Perhaps you would like to recite your traditional prayer over the candles?”
The peddler fidgeted with his tie and humbly asked, “If it vould not offend you, Don Mateo, maybe you permit me to recite the Hebrew blessing offering thanks for the day of rest? I think is goot for Saturday or Sunday.” He looked around the table and added quickly. “It vould please me to share this, but only if you wish it.”
“Please, Señor,” Mamá encouraged him. “It would make the evening special for us.”
Miguel was about to protest when his father gave him a withering glance. He shrank into his chair as if trying to avoid his father’s displeasure as well as the peddler’s words.
Señor Franck stood and held his hands on either side of the glowing candles. “Of course, this prayer is for the Mamá in the house to say,” he explained, “but even though it is only me, I think God listens anyway.” He made a circular motion with his hands, stroking the air as if he were coaxing the light toward his face. Miguel squirmed in his chair. Was this a heathen ritual, calling up some power from the flames? He searched his father’s face for an answer as the peddler chanted words Miguel couldn’t understand. In spite of a sing-song rhythm, Hebrew sounded even worse to his ears than German, and more frightening.
Walk Till You Disappear Page 2
