The Memories of Ana Calderón Page 6

  Pushing César onto the seat next to him, Rodolfo pulled out the sweat-soiled pouch from under his shirt, using both hands to draw open the thick cord that held it together. He withdrew a few pesos and the photograph that by now was crinkled and badly bent. Next he pulled out a folded wad of yellowed papers, and unfolding it, he handed it to Reyes.

  “Let me see. Okay, Rudy! These look like baptism papers. That ought to take care of business. ¡Vámonos!” Cranking on the motor, Reyes made a screeching U-turn and headed back toward the border.

  It was a short drive to the front of a small office which had the words “U.S. Immigration” stenciled on the window in large, white letters. When the group filed into the office, it was empty except for a uniformed man seated behind a scratched wooden desk. The suddenness with which the group entered startled the man.

  “Whoaa! What have we here?”

  Reyes, somewhat nervous, approached the official and stated their wish to be legalized in the U.S. He explained that they were traveling with him to Los Angeles, where a job was waiting for the father. As he spoke, Reyes partially turned to Rodolfo, indicating with his hand that this was the person in question.

  “Hmm. It’s a bunch of them, you know. But, just a minute. To begin with, let me see some papers from you.”

  When Reyes produced the small, crinkled card from his wallet, the man scrutinized it. “Born in the U.S.A., huh? Where?…Oh, never mind…it’s all the same.” Nodding his head in the direction of the family, he said, “You sure you’re going to stuff them all into your house? They can’t be on the streets, you know.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, for openers, let’s get a look at their papers.”

  When Reyes gestured to Rodolfo for the papers, he handed them to the officer. The official spread them out in the order in which Rodolfo had given them to him. He placed the documents on the desk top one by one. He took time, carefully looking at each certificate. As he did this he called out the name inscribed on the paper, despite his difficulty with pronunciation. He paused to look at each girl as she responded, “Aquí, señor.” When he read out Jasmín’s name, no one spoke up, and there was an uncomfortable silence. Wrinkling his brow, the official called out César’s name as he looked directly at Octavio. But when everyone pointed instead at the little boy, the officer became confused.

  He got to his feet, taking the few seconds he needed to collect his thoughts. He was a tall man, well over six feet, and when he stood at his full height, Reyes and Rodolfo looked up at him in unconcealed amazement. The children, openmouthed and head bent back as far as their necks would allow, looked at him as they would have a giant.

  The man, placing his hands on his waist as he wrapped his fingers around his leather belt, stuck out his chin in their direction as he blurted out, “Just a minute, here! Let me get this straight. It sure looks like we got us a problem, you know.”

  Everyone froze. The tall man continued speaking as his penetrating blue eyes looked straight at Reyes. “According to what I see in front of me, we’ve either got an extra boy and one missing girl, or…or…” The children, sensing that something very serious was about to happen, audibly sucked in their breath. “…or that kid’s name,” he pointed a thick, long index finger at Octavio, “is Jasmín!”

  Somehow, they all understood his meaning. They seemed relieved and the girls laughed at Octavio, who looked painfully embarrassed at being confused for a girl. Reyes snapped his head over to Rodolfo, half-whispering. “Do you have anything for the kid?”

  “No. He’s an orphan. No one knows where he came from, much less who his family is, or when or where he was born.”

  “Hey! Cut out the jabbering and give me an explanation.”

  Reyes responded immediately. “Look, officer, here’s the story. First, the girl Jasmín died; just yesterday. We buried her a while ago. If you don’t believe me, you can call Immaculate Heart Chur.…”

  The inspector held up the palm of his hand, signaling Reyes to stop speaking. He pursed his lips together as he lowered his head in thought; his forehead was wrinkled. After a few moments, he spoke. His voice had mellowed. “No. It’s not worth the phone call. I believe you.” Raising his head, his eyes scanned the children’s faces; the man appeared to have softened. “I believe it. It’s no wonder they’re not all dead. I don’t know how they do it.”

  Then returning to his seat, he said, “We’ve still got the problem about this kid’s identity. How do I know if he’s not here against his will? I can’t let him go through just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Ask Señor if he’s got anything that will prove to me that the boy’s been with the family from the beginning.”

  He waited, this time patiently as Reyes whispered to Rodolfo who, as if suddenly struck by a completely new idea, remembered the picture that he was holding. In it was Octavio. Grabbing it from Rodolfo’s fingers, Reyes turned to the inspector. “Look, he has a family picture that shows the kid right up there with them. This picture’s not even two years old.”

  He handed the officer the photograph. He peered at it, looking up and checking each child’s face as his finger moved across the picture. He paused on one face and muttered, “This must be the mom. Dead, too, I’ll bet.”

  After rubbing his eyes and cheeks, the officer continued speaking, “Okay. You’re all lucky we’re still doing it this way. Soon crossing will get tough, you know. Anyway, the registration fee for each one of them will be six bits. Here, take these forms over to the other room. Fill them out. We need a picture of the father and each kid. That’ll cost a nickel a piece. In the next room you’ll find Artie Hess. He’s the court photographer, you know.”

  The man, finding this last remark funny, laughed out loud, heaving his mid-section in and out. The group filed out of the room, and it took several hours before they were handed a group visa. It was a large document. On it were printed words none of them could decipher; a large, spread-out eagle was stamped at its top, and each of their pictures was pasted to the bottom of the paper. César was taken in the same shot with his father. Pilar and Cruz were also paired off. On their own were Octavio, Zulma, Rosalva, Alejandra and Ana. Only Ana’s eyes burned with a strange brilliance that even the years that intervened between the time of that photo and when she became a grown woman would not diminish.

  As things worked out, Reyes Soto and his family became so close to us that people thought that we were cousins, aunts and uncles. I’ve never known why he did so much for us at a time when he could have walked away from us. What’s important, however, is that he didn’t. I mean, he didn’t leave us in Nogales where we probably would have had a life much different than it turned out to be.

  He was a man about my father’s age. When he came into our lives, I think he must have been around forty, maybe just a little less, or a little more. He was a short man and, because of this, he held himself very straight, with his shoulders arched up as if trying to stretch himself just a little more. He had bushy brown hair that coiled upwards, each hair seeming to be a separate curl. His face was round and so were his eyes, which were cheerful most of the time. He wore a thin mustache that was dark when we first knew him, and later on it turned gray, just like his hair. Reyes was one of those men who lived his entire life without becoming bald.

  As the years passed, he liked to tell everyone that he was a pachuco. He even tried to adopt the words and expressions such as “Ese Vato Loco” when speaking to men, and “Esa Huisa” when speaking to women. But no, Reyes was never a pachuco. He was from East Los Angeles, but he was never one of those angry young men who dressed up just so that someone could come and attack them.

  I know that for us he was a hero because he rescued us from the desert, and from a trap that would have destroyed us. Reyes guided us from that terrible place to where we finally made our home. There are some parts of that trip that brought us to Los Angeles that I’ve forgotten, and others that I’ll always remember. I’ll never forget that even though my father’s
money ran out before we even got to Yuma, Reyes continued to pay for the gas and for what we ate on the road. I remember the desert we had to cross, and how Reyes put a big canvas cover over us, trying to keep the sun and sand from hurting us.

  The girls couldn’t help themselves; they cried a lot because of the intense heat that burned their skin during the day and because of the cold at night. When darkness overtook us at the end of each day, Reyes stopped the truck and we had to spend the night out in the desert, in the middle of nowhere. We had very little to eat, but he was careful to make sure that we had enough water to drink. I think, however, that my sisters cried mostly because they were afraid. Octavio and Alejandra didn’t seem to mind any part of that trip; they played their usual games. Most of the time they were oblivious to the rest of us and to what was happening.

  When we crossed over into California and into the Imperial Valley, Reyes stopped at the Salton Sea. We all loved it there because it was the first time we had come close to water since we left Puerto Real. I looked around, however, and saw that behind me was all desert, and that it was different from the cove of my memories.

  We went to Coachella and Indio, and when we got to the orchards where the fruit of the palm trees is cultivated, Reyes made a special stop just so we could taste that fruit.

  As we moved closer to Los Angeles, I noticed that more and more people looked like the Carney family and the officer who had scared us because he was so tall. I liked to listen to those people speak; I liked their language. I didn’t know then that soon I would be able to speak with them.

  ’Apá became more silent; he spoke very little and he seemed to be shrinking. He never spoke to me except to tell me to help César or to move over in the truck. He didn’t look at me at those times, either. I mean, he didn’t look at my face when he spoke to me, as if I had been invisible. Now and then when he did look into my eyes, I knew that it had been an accident because I could feel the icicles that were inside of his eyes.

  When we got to Riverside, Reyes told us all to relax because soon we’d be in Los Angeles. He didn’t call the city by its name. Instead he always said L.A., so we lived for years thinking that we lived in a town named L.A.

  My first memory of the fringes of Los Angeles is of long tracks of flowers on the left side of the road as we headed for Reyes’ house, and to the right of us were sloping hills that looked soft and golden in the declining sun. With the desert of the Yaqui River Valley still in our mind, the sight of those strips that alternated in red, white, lavender, amber, and then red again filled us with excitement. There were so many flowers that none of us could see where they ended. Jasmín came back into my mind because I remembered that ’Amá once told me that she had named my sister after a flower because she was born at dawn, when the sky was the color of lilacs and lilies.

  As the truck slid alongside the flowers, I stretched my neck over to the driver’s side of the cab and shouted to Reyes, “Is this where we’re going to live?”

  “No,” he yelled back. “It all belongs to Chapos. They’re the people who grow flowers and sell them at the main market in town.”

  I told myself that I would like to work with those people, even though at that time I didn’t know what a Japanese person looked like.

  When Reyes saw how excited we all were because of the flowers, he stopped the truck and stuck his head out the window. “This road is called Floral Drive because of all the flowers.”

  Soon after, we went down a steep hill to where the truck made a turn on Humphrys Avenue, and there Reyes stopped. He jumped out and announced, “We have arrived!” He shouted out his wife’s name, and in a minute a very pretty woman came out of the front door. She was followed by several children, girls and boys, and they all looked just like Reyes.

  “It’s only a garage, Rudy, but you and the kids can stay here until we find you a job. Tomorrow I’ll take you over to some of the junk yards. I think something will turn up.”

  “’Apá, where are we going to eat?” Zulma blurted out what everyone was thinking, but her father ignored the question.

  Rodolfo, with the children huddled behind him, stood in the middle of a rickety garage with a dirt floor. “Gracias, Reyes. I’m grateful. As soon as I can work, maybe we can find a house.”

  “Yeah.” Reyes looked at Zulma and said, “You can eat in the kitchen with my kids. We got a lot of rice and beans.” Then turning to Rodolfo, “In the meantime, my wife told me that the older kids better start off in school right away.”

  “’Apá!…” Several voices shouted out in protest.

  “We don’t know how to talk the way they do here. How can we go to school?” Alejandra confronted Rodolfo. “Why don’t we work with you? That way we can get a house right away.”

  Rodolfo and Reyes looked at one another and then at the children. “No, Aleja, you need just a little bit of school. After that, you can start working.”

  It was late September when the Calderón children joined the rest of the barrio kids who walked to Hammel Street School. Ana and Octavio were placed in the sixth grade and Alejandra in the third, and their fear of not knowing how to speak English disappeared once they saw that most of the children were just like them.

  Ana felt older than the other children in her class, but she liked school. It was difficult for her to forget the tomato fields and the women who had worked by her side. Her mind, however, was captivated from the beginning with learning the new language, and she concentrated on how her teacher used pictures and the blackboard to teach new words.

  At the end of the first day in school, as Señora Soto was serving them dinner, the Calderón and Soto children jabbered about their experiences. When the noise got so loud, the woman was forced to shush them into silence. After a few minutes, the talking began all over again.

  Ana looked at Octavio and said, “I learned to say some words in English. How about you?”

  Octavio smiled at her, exposing the contents of his stuffed mouth, but he didn’t answer her question. Alejandra made a face of disgust as she said, “I hated it. I don’t want to be by myself with a bunch of kids I don’t know. I wish we could go back home. I liked it better there.”

  “Ana and me were put with the older kids because we’re smarter than you.” Octavio laughed, showing her that he liked being in the same classroom with Ana. But Alejandra resented it when he bragged about himself and Ana. She felt insulted and could only glare at him as she mumbled, “Burro!”

  Ana thought of the cove back home, the palm trees, and how she, her sister, and Octavio spent most of their time playing by the water. She looked down at the plate in front of her and wondered why she felt so different now. Not much time had passed, she told herself, and yet she didn’t want to play with either Octavio or Alejandra any more. She spoke up again. “I liked the teacher a lot.” Looking at Alejandra, she explained, “Her name is Miss Nugent, and she told me that if I try, I can learn right away.”

  “Liar! How could she tell you that if she doesn’t know how to speak like us?” Alejandra challenged her sister’s remark.

  Ana stopped, fork in mid-air, wondering how it had happened. “No. I’m not a liar, and even if I don’t know how she told me, still, I understood her.”

  Alejandra jumped out of her chair with the pretext of putting her plate in the sink, but once she was behind Ana, she put horns over her head, making everyone laugh.

  The days that followed turned into weeks and months. Ana became fond of school. She learned new words every day until she began to put them together, and by the end of the term, she was able to stay after school to talk with Miss Nugent while helping to clean the blackboard and dust off the erasers.

  Octavio, on the other hand, was not interested in learning anything, and from the first day, instead of concentrating on what the teacher was showing them, decided to become the class clown. He had a winning way about him, so much that he even became the teacher’s preferred student almost immediately, despite his disinterest in her lessons.


  He noticed his impact on girls, and when he realized that there was something about him that made them like him, he fooled around, intentionally making them blush and giggle. He liked that very much, and he soon understood that he had a special personality, one which made him admired even by the boys.

  He was taller than most of them, and his features were already striking. His skin had a rich, dark mahogany tone and his hair, also dark brown, was wavy and shiny. His eyes were slanted and large, like those of a cat. His brow was medium-sized and his nose tended to be long and slender. His mouth was sensitive, and it appeared to be developing a sensuousness that would intensify as he grew older.

  The months passed and by the time the first year of school ended for the Calderón children, Rodolfo was able to rent a small house across the street from the Reyes place. He needed help, however, and when most of the families of the barrio migrated up to Fresno and Salinas for the summer harvesting, he told Ana, Octavio, and Alejandra that they had to join the others and go to work.

  “’Apá, let me stay here to look after the kids.” Ana didn’t want to return to the fields, to the outhouses, to the drunken Saturday nights. When her father turned his face away from her, she pressed him with more intensity. “I can cook for you and the kids, really I can. Please let me stay and…”

  “No! You have to earn your keep. Don’t think you’re fooling me; I know that the only reason you want to stay is to read more books. You’re a lazy girl, Ana, but you don’t fool your father. When you return in September, I expect you to bring money enough to pay for your food during the year.”

  “But ’Apá…”

  “Silencio!”

  Ana did as her father ordered, and she did this each summer until she ended the tenth grade in school. During the school year, however, she was able to read and keep in contact with her grammar-school teacher, Miss Nugent. But the more she learned, the more separated Ana felt from Octavio and Alejandra. And, she felt her father’s resentment growing with each year.