The Other Side of the River, page 17
“Have you been to Paris, Mr. Knox?” Victoria asked.
“I have,” Mr. Knox said.
“I’m impressed, Señor Knox” Elena’s mother said.
“But not the one in France,” Mr. Knox said. “I’ve been to the one here in Texas. Paris, Texas.”
Elena’s mother raised an eyebrow and went back to eating her dessert.
“You all would love it,” said Victoria. “It’s almost like Mexico City, except their buildings are grander and more gorgeous, and their parks are more beautiful than Chapultepec.”
“What about the shopping?” Elena’s mother asked.
“It’s glorious,” Victoria said. “But the best part about Paris is its refined people. Everyone is dressed impeccably. Not like in Mexico City, where you constantly come across chusma.”
My heart was suddenly on fire, but maybe I’d misunderstood Victoria. Perhaps when she mentioned the riffraff, she referred to something else.
“We attended one of President Díaz’s parades in 1910,” Elena’s mother continued, “as we celebrated his reelection, he made sure none of those pitiful people spoiled the grand event. Can you imagine the embarrassment if foreign dignitaries saw those people wearing their filthy, ragged clothes and begging for alms?”
It was my people Elena’s mother spoke of, but I was sure Victoria didn’t agree with her.
“Ever since our arrival”—Victoria had lowered her voice—“I avoid going anywhere near the train depot. Have you noticed how those people have settled in that part of the city?”
Father Amaro spoke up. “Some people call it Los Corrales because it looks like a chiquero, a pig’s pen.”
Laughter broke out, and I wondered if Victoria and Mr. Knox had laughed too.
“Mr. Knox,” said Victoria’s father. “Your intent to open your school in that neighborhood concerns us. Many of our friends have small children and would benefit from the school in a different location.”
Mr. Knox didn’t respond.
“Señor Bentacur may have a point,” Father Amaro said. “Your school could make the transition of their children into American life easier.”
Elena’s mother cleared her throat. “Perhaps a nice contribution would allow you to open the school in a nice part of the city, maybe purchase a new building.”
“Gracias,” Mr. Knox said. “Your contribution would indeed help us build a school.”
I stood there not believing what I heard—Victoria and her family, along with Father Amaro, trying to take away our only chance to learn and improve our lives.
“Mr. Knox,” Victoria said, “You must understand, these people are not the same as us.”
Victoria’s words were like a kick in the gut. Hadn’t she seen me as a friend? Hadn’t she asked my name, smiled at me, talked to me, and even danced with me?
Vitoria’s mother interrupted. “What my darling daughter means is that impoverished children have no time for school. They’re busy working, attending to chores, so it’s useless to force these children to go to school.”
“They’re not like us,” Victoria said. “The way they live, eat—it’s appalling. Two days ago, the smell of corn bread lingered around here, and it was revolting.”
“That was Petra,” Father Amaro said. “She and Sister Nora are always cooking it.”
“Corn is for pigs, for donkeys,” Victoria’s mother said. “It’s a deplorable grain.”
“That’s interesting,” Mr. Knox said. “I eat corn bread almost every day.”
“Eating corn bread is not a horrible thing,” Elena’s mother said. “What’s truly revolting are nodrizas who are indias. When I found out Elena’s former fiancé had been nursed as an infant by one of his family’s servant girls—an india—ay, Dios.” Elena’s mother brought her hand to her chest and appeared to wrinkle her nose. “I made her break off the engagement right away.”
“Guácala,” said Victoria with a tone of disgust. “You did the right thing, Elena.”
“Of course, she did the right thing,” Elena’s mother said. “The milk from an Indigenous woman carries her ignorance and her fears—it passes all those horrible things to the infant. I couldn’t bear to have that passed down to my own grandchildren from a father who’d been fed that kind of milk.”
“Señor Knox,” Victoria’s father said, “it’ll be a mistake and a disservice to the Mexican community if you waste your resources on such children. Those poor refugee children are incapable of learning. They were built for hard labor, and in the end, they’ll serve society better if they do the work they were intended to do.”
I could no longer hold in my rage.
I yanked the curtain back and stepped into the dining room.
“We’re not fearful or ignorant people,” I shouted.
Everyone’s eyes, as big and round as dinner plates, were on me.
“We’re not fearful, because thousands of people like me are fighting right now to change Mexico,” I said. “We’re fighting the heat, the hunger, and the pain that comes from crossing the desert to reach a better life. How can you call us fearful when our villages were burned and our fathers taken away to fight a war that lets you keep your life of luxury? How can you sit there, eat your dessert, sip your warm coffee, and call us ignorant when it’s you who take opportunities away from us?”
Father Amaro stood up. “Petra, I forbid you to speak—”
“Let her speak,” Mr. Knox said, standing up and raising a hand to Father Amaro.
“I’m not going to keep quiet,” I said. “Not anymore. We’ve kept quiet for too long, and now our country is falling apart.”
I looked at Victoria. Her eyes turned away from me. I wanted to reproach her for her words, but if I did, I knew I’d start crying.
Instead, I turned to Father Amaro. “You more than anyone know how terrible life is for us in Mexico. Yet you welcome these people’s ideas and laugh at our struggle to survive in this new country.”
Father Amaro, face red with anger, glared at me. He tightened his grip on the white napkin he held at his side. I wasn’t about to let these people see me break down, so I turned and ran down the hallway feeling a fire inside me like never before.
I dashed into the kitchen, untied the strings of my apron, sat it on the table, and ran out of the church. Nothing mattered anymore. Not my life here, the church, Sister Nora’s teachings, her books, my experiences—none of it mattered. I was done with everything here, with this town, and with my life in America.
I ran home in the rain as their insults continued to burn through me. Was there a curse in our mother’s milk? In our blood? Was it a curse that would follow us everywhere and always make us appear as fearful people? I refused to give in to it, to accept it, but I couldn’t fight it here, not in America. I didn’t stand a chance here. But in Mexico, I could use the fire inside me to fight for change. I’d give my blood if necessary and show them I was not afraid.
Forty-One
A Mirage
I arrived home, and when I opened the door, a gust of wind swirled from behind and swung it wide open. Amelia and Nina were startled. Both sat at the table, combing through a pile of uncooked beans.
“Shut that door,” said Abuelita, sitting by the stove. “Pronto!”
I pushed the door against the strong wind.
“Nos va dar un aire,” said Abuelita. “If that cold air reaches us, we’ll all end up sick.”
After shutting the door, I walked straight to where we kept our money. I reached for the oregano plant, and my trembling hands dropped the entire plant, pot, and can into the crate below.
“Please be careful with the plants,” said Abuelita.
I grabbed the small tin box from the mess and scooped up most of the scattered soil. I put the plant back together as best as I could.
“Why are you counting the money again?” asked Abuelita.
“I’m making sure you have enough,” I said.
“Enough for the slate?” asked Amelia.
I glared at her without saying a word.
“Qué te pasa, m’ija?” Abuelita asked. “What’s the matter?”
I counted the money and took some to buy a train ticket back to Mexico.
“You should have enough in this box to cover food and rent for the next four weeks.”
“Petra, did Sister Nora let you go?”
Everyone stared at me with round eyes. Even Luisito had stopped nibbling on his tamal.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
Abuelita wiped her hands across her apron. “Where to?”
My jaw felt so tight, I couldn’t open my mouth to answer.
“M’ija, you’re scaring me,” said Abuelita. She reached for my shoulder. “What’s happening?”
I took in a deep breath. “I’m going back to Mexico.”
Abuelita let go of my shoulder. “No,” she whispered. Her crooked fingers covered her mouth.
Amelia jumped off her chair. “Are you going back to find Papa?”
I swallowed hard. “Maybe…I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Abuelita gave me a baffled look.
“I’m going back to join the rebels,” I said.
Abuelita shut her eyes tight and winced. “Petra, you can’t do this. You can’t do this to us, to yourself.”
“I’ve made up my mind,” I said. “I came to America with dreams, and I work hard every day to make them come true, but they only move further and further away. In Mexico, if I fight with all my heart, I have a chance to make them come true.”
“M’ija,” said Abuelita. She clasped her hands. “Mexico’s a living hell right now. Remember the violence, the terror? Don’t rush into something you might—”
“It’s done,” I said. “I’m leaving, and I’m going to the train station right now to purchase my ticket for tomorrow.”
Amelia wrapped her arms around my legs. “Don’t go. You’re going to be a teacher. Remember?”
I wanted to squat down and hold Amelia, but if I was going to be a tough rebel, I had to learn to shut off my emotions.
“Do you even know where to go?” said Abuelita.
“Piedras Negras,” I said. “I’ll start there. It’s under rebel control now. Once I get there, I’ll join the rebels—maybe I can even find Marietta, and as soon as I get paid, I’ll start sending you money.”
Abuelita tried to reach for my shoulders, but I pulled away.
“I have to get ready,” I said, unwrapping Amelia’s arms from my legs and pushing her away.
Amelia turned to Abuelita and clung to her instead, sobbing. My heart crumbled hearing her sobs and seeing Luisito, who looked confused. I convinced myself her suffering was necessary. It was the only way for our dreams to come true.
I walked into the next room and stood in front of the mirror.
“I have to do what’s right,” I whispered to myself. “And this is what’s right.”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out my purple scarf, and wrapped it around my neck.
“Petra,” said Amelia. Her head peeked from behind the hung fabric door. I tried to soften my face for her. Amelia walked toward me, and in the dim light, I could see the fear in her face. Her small, scrunched-up shoulders reminded me of the little girl from Sister Nora’s book, Cosette.
“Don’t go,” she said.
“Don’t be so scared,” I said. “I’m the one who’s going. You’re staying here, where it’s safe. You have Nina to play with, and soon you’ll start school. When it’s all over, I promise I’ll come back to get you all.”
“Please, Petra. Please, don’t go,” she said. Her trembling hands tried to wipe the torrent of tears that streamed down her cheeks.
“Stop asking me to stay, Amelia.” I straightened. “I don’t have a choice.”
“You do have a choice.”
“I don’t. And I don’t need you to make me feel worse.”
Amelia covered her face and shook as she sobbed.
“I already fulfilled Papa’s promise. You’re in a safe place, and now it’s time I fight for my dreams.”
I stopped talking. It was useless. I couldn’t explain something to a little girl who’d probably become more scared and confused.
I walked around Amelia and pushed the curtain aside. Steam swirled above a pot on the stove, but Abuelita paid it no mind. She sat at the table with eyes shut as Nina stood by her and patted her gray head. Luisito, sitting on the floor and still crying, stretched his arms out to me.
Nina stared at me with sad eyes.
“I’ll be back later,” I said, and as I left, I tried to shut the door quickly to avoid the cool air flooding into the shack.
I trotted through puddles with knots in my stomach. I was afraid that if I kept quiet, the grasshoppers inside me would convince me to turn back and not purchase the train ticket. They’d convince me to stay.
My heart pounded harder inside my chest the closer I got to the train depot. Under the rain, the Apache statue atop the dome seemed to aim his arrow blindly into the overcast day. There was no beaming sun to guide him. I paused before stepping into the depot. There was no turning back after buying this ticket. I had no money to throw away. If I bought the ticket now, it was going to be used.
Giant, freezing drops of rain plopped on my head, pushing me to step inside.
My broken English was enough. The attendant at the window understood what I wanted and even smiled at me, but I didn’t feel fulfilled nor accomplished. Not anymore. Not in this country.
My fingers wrapped around the purchased ticket, and images of the battles Marietta and Pablo had described flashed through my mind. I put a stop to the fear creeping inside me by forcing my mind to remember the names of places, of people, and of battles both had fought.
Pablo had mentioned a military group made up of nothing but women. He’d called it a regiment, and a woman general ran the whole thing. If I failed to find Marietta, I’d make my way to the women’s regiment.
I walked away from the train station, ticket in hand, and looked at the city that had once given me so much hope. I walked past the infirmary. The size of the building had awed me once, but the dazzling feeling was gone. The whole city had been like a mirage in a desert, and now I was close enough to see the truth. The belief that with hard work my dreams would come true, a belief I held with all my heart, was gone.
Forty-Two
The Bargain
I stepped onto my porch and stomped the mud off my boots. My shivering hands, deep in my pockets, touched both my baby diamond and my train ticket stamped for tomorrow morning.
I slipped inside and quickly shut the door behind me, careful to not let in much of the wind.
Abuelita rushed toward me. “She’s with you, right?”
“Who?” I asked and scanned the room. Nina, sitting by Camila, had red, swollen eyes.
“It’s Amelia,” said Camila. Her hair was dripping. “We can’t find her.”
I turned to Nina. “Did you see Amelia leave?”
Nina’s pouting lips quivered, and when I took a step toward her, she turned away.
“Nina,” I dropped to my knees in front of her. “You’re Amelia’s best friend, right?”
Nina nodded, holding back tears.
“Can you tell me where she went?”
Nina shook her head.
“Look, it’s raining a lot, and it’s getting dark. We need to know where she—”
“Don Wong’s,” said Nina.
“Don Wong’s? What for?” I asked.
“To get the slate.”
“Did she have money?” I asked. My eyes went to the oregano plant. It looked undisturbed.
Nina shook her head. “She had her doll.”
“Let’s go to Don Wong’s,” said Camila. “Amelia’s probably still there, bargaining.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Vamos!”
“Vayan con Dios,” said Abuelita and made the sign of the cross toward Camila and me.
The day had grown darker, and the rumble of the approaching storm pressed us to run faster.
Bells rang when I pushed open Don Wong’s glass door.
“Amelia,” I shouted.
The store was empty and dead silent. Camila and I reached the front counter.
“Don Wong,” I called out to the curtain of beads that separated the store from the back living area. The curtain made soft waterfall sounds as Don Wong stepped through it.
“We’re looking for Amelia. Has she been here?” I asked him.
He nodded. “One hour ago. She wanted to trade: her doll and ten cents for slate.”
Don Wong’s concerned eyes shifted behind him. On a shelf sat the last slate.
“I didn’t accept trade, and she said she bring pecans or yellow coat, or both,” said Don Wong.
“But she loved that coat,” I said. “She’d never give it up.”
“I say, ‘No coat,’” said Don Wong, “but she say slate very important. I say ten cents, one sack of pecans, and slate is yours.”
“She probably went home for pecans,” said Camila.
A shiver ran through me.
“The crate,” I said to Camila. “It was empty. There were no pecans in it.”
“Dear God.” Camila crossed herself. “You don’t think she—”
Don Wong’s eyes grew wider. “She step outside with gunnysack.”
“Did you see which way she went?” Camila’s voice trembled.
“Left,” said Don Wong, pointing toward the creek.
My heart sank as a boom of thunder shook the building. The rain outside had never sounded more awful.
Forty-Three
Thunder & Lightning
Don Wong moved swiftly. He grabbed three looped ropes off the wall.
