[Part 2] "Esperanza Rising" by Pam Muñoz Ryan
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CHAPTER V. LAS GUAYABAS GUAVAS
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They emerged from the fig orchard and continued through a pear grove.
When they came into a clearing, they saw Señor Rodríguez waiting with a lantern by the barn doors.
They hurried inside.
Pigeons fluttered in the rafters.
Their wagon was waiting, surrounded by crates of green guavas.
“Did Marisol come?” asked Esperanza, her eyes searching the barn.
“I could tell no one about your departure,” said Señor Rodríguez.
“When the time is right, I will tell her that you looked for her and said good-bye.
Now we must hurry.
You need the protection of darkness.”
Alfonso, Miguel, and Señor Rodríguez had built another floor in the wagon, higher than the real one and open at the back, with barely enough room between for Mama, Esperanza, and Hortensia to lie down.
Hortensia lined it with blankets.
Esperanza had known about the plan, but now she hesitated when she saw the small space.
“Please, can I sit with Alfonso and Miguel?”
“Mija, it is necessary,” said Mama.
“There are too many bandits,” said Alfonso.
“It is not safe for women to be on the roads at night.
Besides, your uncles have many spies.
Remember?
That is why we must take the wagon to Zacatecas and catch the train there, instead of from Aguascalientes.”
“Luis has bragged about the engagement to everyone,” said Hortensia.
“Think how angry he will be when he discovers you have gone.
We cannot take the chance of you being seen.”
Mama and Hortensia said grateful good-byes to Señor Rodríguez, then slid between the floors of the wagon.
Esperanza reluctantly scooted on her back between them.
“When can we get out?”
“Every few hours, we will stop and stretch,” said Mama.
Esperanza stared at the wood planks just a few inches from her face.
She could hear Alfonso, Miguel, and Señor Rodríguez dumping crate after crate of guavas onto the floor above them, the almost-ripe fruit rolling and tumbling as it was piled on.
The guavas smelled fresh and sweet, like pears and oranges all in one.
Then she felt the guavas roll in around her feet as Alfonso and Miguel covered the opening.
If anyone saw the wagon on the road, it would look like a farmer and his son, taking a load of fruit to market.
“How are you?” Alfonso asked, sounding far away.
“We are fine,” called Hortensia.
The wagon pulled out of the barn and the guavas shifted, then settled.
It was dark inside and it felt like someone was rocking them in a bumpy cradle, sometimes side to side and sometimes back and forth.
Esperanza began to feel frightened.
She knew that with a few kicks of her feet she could get out, but still she felt trapped.
Suddenly, she thought she couldn’t breathe.
“Mama!” she said, gasping for air.
“Right here, Esperanza.
Everything is fine.”
“Do you remember,” said Hortensia, taking her hand, “when you were only five years old and we hid from the thieves?
You were so brave for such a little girl.
Your parents and Alfonso and the other servants had gone to town.
It was just you and me and Miguel in the house.
We were in your bedroom and I was pinning the hem of your beautiful blue silk dress.
Do you remember that dress?
You wanted it pinned higher so your new shoes would show.”
Esperanza’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness and to the pitch and roll of the wagon.
“Miguel ran into the house because he had seen bandits,” said Esperanza, exhaling.
She remembered standing on a chair with her arms outstretched like a bird ready for flight while Hortensia fitted the sides of the dress.
And she remembered the new shoes, shiny and black.
“Yes,” said Hortensia.
“I looked out the window to see six men, their faces covered with handkerchiefs, and they all held rifles.
They were renegades who thought they had permission to steal from the rich and give to the poor.
But they didn’t always give to the poor and they sometimes killed innocent people.”
“We hid under the bed,” said Esperanza.
“And we pulled down the bedcovers so they couldn’t see us.”
She remembered staring straight up at the bed boards.
Much like the boards enclosing them in the wagon now.
She took another long breath.
“What we didn’t know was that Miguel had a big field mouse in his pocket,” said Hortensia.
“Yes.
He was going to scare me with it,” said Esperanza.
The wagon creaked and swayed.
They could hear Alfonso and Miguel murmuring above them.
The persistent smell of the guavas filled their noses.
Esperanza relaxed a little.
Hortensia continued.
“The men came into the house and we could hear them opening cupboards and stealing the silver.
Then we heard them climb the stairs.
Two men came into the bedroom and we saw their big boots through a crack in the bedcover.
But we didn’t say a word.”
“Until a pin poked me and I moved my leg and made a noise.”
“I was so frightened they would find us,” said Hortensia.
“But Miguel pushed the mouse out from under the bed and it ran around the room.
The men were startled but started laughing.
And then one of them said, ‘It is just a ratón.
We’ve got plenty.
Let’s go,’ and they left,” said Esperanza.
Mama said, “They took almost all of the silver, but Papa and I only cared that all of you were safe.
Do you remember how Papa said that Miguel was very smart and brave and asked him what he wanted for protecting you, his most prized possession?”
Esperanza remembered.
“Miguel wanted to go on a train ride.”
Hortensia started to hum softly and Mama held Esperanza’s hand.
Miguel’s reward, that day-long train ride to Zacatecas, seemed like yesterday.
Miguel had been eight and Esperanza five.
She wore the beautiful blue silk dress and could still see Miguel standing at the station, wearing a bow tie and practically shining, as if Hortensia had cleaned and starched his entire body.
Even his hair was slicked down smooth and his eyes gleamed with excitement.
He was mesmerized by the locomotive, watching it slowly pull in.
Esperanza had been excited, too.
When the train arrived, all sputtering and blustery, porters had hurried to escort them, showing them the way to their car.
Papa took her hand and Miguel’s and they boarded, waving good-bye to Alfonso and Hortensia.
The compartment had seats of soft leather, and she and Miguel had bounced happily upon them.
Later, they ate in the dining car at little tables covered in white linens and set with silver and crystal.
When the waiter came and asked if there was anything he could bring them, Esperanza said, “Yes, please bring lunch, now.”
The men and women dressed in their hats and fancy clothes smiled and chuckled at what must have looked like a doting father and two privileged children.
When they arrived in Zacatecas, a woman wrapped in a colorful rebozo, a blanket shawl, boarded the train selling mangoes on a stick.
The mangoes were peeled and carved to look like exotic flowers.
Papa bought one for each of them.
On the return ride, she and Miguel, with their noses pressed against the window, and their hands still sticky from the fresh mango, had waved to every person they saw.
The wagon jostled them now as it hit a hole in the road.
Esperanza wished she could get to Zacatecas as fast as she had that day on the train instead of traveling on back roads, hidden in a slow wagon.
But this time, she was buried beneath a mountain of guavas and could not wave to anyone.
There was no comfort.
And there was no Papa.
********
Esperanza stood at the station in Zacatecas, tugging at the second-hand dress.
It didn’t fit properly and was the most awful yellow.
And even though they had been out of the wagon for some hours, she still smelled like guavas.
It had taken them two days to arrive in Zacatecas, but finally, that morning, they left the wagon hidden in a thicket of shrubs and trees and walked into town.
After the discomfort of the wagon, she was looking forward to the train.
The locomotive arrived pulling a line of cars and hissing and spewing steam.
But they did not board the fancy car with the compartments and leather seats or the dining car with the white linens.
Instead, Alfonso led them to a car with rows of wooden benches, like church pews facing each other, already crowded with peasants.
Trash littered the floor and it reeked of rotting fruit and urine.
A man with a small goat on his lap grinned at Esperanza, revealing no teeth.
Three barefoot children, two boys and a girl, crowded near their mother.
Their legs were chalky with dust, their clothes were in tatters, and their hair was grimy.
An old, frail beggar woman pushed by them to the back of the car, clutching a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
Her hand was outstretched for alms.
Esperanza had never been so close to so many peasants before.
When she went to school, all of her friends were like her.
When she went to town, she was escorted and hurried around any beggars.
And the peasants always kept their distance.
That was simply the way it was.
She couldn’t help but wonder if they would steal her things.
“Mama,” said Esperanza, stopping in the doorway.
“We cannot travel in this car.
It … it is not clean.
And the people do not look trustworthy.”
Esperanza saw Miguel frown as he edged around her to sit down.
Mama took her hand and guided her to an empty bench where Esperanza slid over next to the window.
“Papa would never have had us sit here and Abuelita wouldn’t approve,” she said, stubbornly.
“Mija, it is all we can afford,” said Mama.
“We must make do.
It is not easy for me either.
But remember, we are going to a place that will be better than living with Tío Luis, and at least we will be together.”
The train pulled out and settled into a steady motion.
Hortensia and Mama took out their crocheting.
Mama was using a small hook and white cotton thread to make carpetas, lace doilies, to put under a lamp or a vase.
She held up her work to Esperanza and smiled.
“Would you like to learn?”
Esperanza shook her head.
Why did Mama bother crocheting lace?
They had no vases or lámparas to put on top of them.
Esperanza leaned her head against the window.
She knew she did not belong here.
She was Esperanza Ortega from El Rancho de las Rosas.
She crossed her arms tight and stared out the window.
For hours, Esperanza watched the undulating land pass in front of her.
Everything seemed to remind her of what she had left behind: the nopales reminded her of Abuelita who loved to eat the prickly pear cactus sliced and soaked in vinegar and oil; the dogs from small villages that barked and ran after the train reminded her of Marisol, whose dog, Capitán, chased after trains the same way.
And every time Esperanza saw a shrine decorated with crosses, flowers, and miniature statues of saints next to the rails, she couldn’t help but wonder if it had been someone’s father who had died on the tracks and if somewhere there was another girl who missed him, too.
Esperanza opened her valise to check on the doll, lifting it out and straightening her clothes.
The barefoot peasant girl ran over.
“Mona,” she said, and reached up to touch the doll.
Esperanza quickly jerked it away and put it back in the valise, covering it with the old clothes.
“¡Mona!
¡Mona!” said the little girl, running back to her mother.
And then she began to cry.
Mama and Hortensia both stopped their needles and stared at Esperanza.
Mama looked across at the girl’s mother.
“I am sorry for my daughter’s bad manners.”
Esperanza looked at Mama in surprise.
Why was she apologizing to these people?
She and Mama shouldn’t even be sitting in this car.
Hortensia looked from one to the other and excused herself.
“I think I will find Alfonso and Miguel and see if they bought tortillas at the station.”
Mama looked at Esperanza.
“I don’t think it would have hurt to let her hold it for a few moments.”
“Mama, she is poor and dirty …” said Esperanza.
But Mama interrupted.
“When you scorn these people, you scorn Miguel, Hortensia, and Alfonso.
And you embarrass me and yourself.
As difficult as it is to accept, our lives are different now.”
The child kept crying.
Her face was so dirty that her tears washed clean streaks down her cheeks.
Esperanza suddenly felt ashamed and the color rose in her face, but she still pushed the valise farther under the seat with her feet and turned her body away from Mama.
Esperanza tried not to look back at the little girl but she couldn’t help it.
She wished she could tell the little girl’s mother that she had always given her old toys to the orphanage, but that this doll was special.
Besides, the child would have soiled it with her hands.
Mama reached in her bag and pulled out a ball of blanket yarn.
“Esperanza, hold out your hands for me.”
She raised her eyebrows and nodded toward the girl.
Esperanza knew exactly what Mama intended to do.
They had done it many times before.
Mama wrapped the yarn around Esperanza’s outstretched hands about fifty times until they were almost covered.
Then she slipped a string of yarn through the middle of the loops and tied a tight knot before Esperanza removed her hands.
A few inches below the knot, Mama tied another snug knot around all the yarn, forming a head.
Then she cut the bottom loops, separated the strands into sections, and braided each section into what looked like arms and legs.
She held the yarn doll up, offering it to the little girl.
She ran to Mama, smiling, took the doll, and ran back to her own mother’s side.
The mother whispered into the girl’s ear.
Shyly, she said, “Gracias.
Thank you.”
“De nada.
You’re welcome,” said Mama.
The woman and the children got off the train at the next stop.
Esperanza watched the little girl stop in front of their window, wave to Mama, and smile again.
Before she walked away, she made the yarn doll wave good-bye, too.
Esperanza was glad the girl got off the train and took the silly yarn doll with her.
Otherwise, she would have been reminded of her own selfishness and Mama’s disapproval for miles to come.
********
Clicketta, clicketta, clicketta.
The song of the locomotive was monotonous as they traveled north, and the hours seemed like Mama’s never-ending ball of thread unwinding in front of them.
Each morning the sun peeked over one spur of the Sierra Madre, sometimes shining through pine trees.
In the evening, it set on the left, sinking behind another peak and leaving pink clouds and purple mountains against the darkening sky.
When people got on and off, Esperanza and the others changed their seats.
When the car filled up, they sometimes stood.
When the car was less crowded, they put their valises under their heads and tried to sleep on the benches.
At every stop, Miguel and Alfonso hurried off the train with a package.
From the window, Esperanza watched them go to a water trough, unwrap an oilcloth, and dampen the bundle inside.
Then they would wrap it in the oilcloth again, board the train, and put it carefully back into Alfonso’s bag.
“What is in there?” Esperanza finally asked Alfonso, as the train pulled away from yet another station.
“You will see when we get there.”
He smiled and a knowing look passed between him and Miguel.
Esperanza was annoyed with Alfonso for taking the package on and off the train without telling her what was inside.
She was tired of Hortensia’s humming and weary of watching Mama crochet, as if nothing unusual were happening to them.
But most of all she was bored with Miguel’s constant talk about trains.
He chatted with the conductors.
He got off at every stop and watched the engineers.
He studied the train schedule and wanted to report it all to Esperanza.
He seemed as happy as Esperanza was irritable.
“When I get to California, I am going to work for the railroad,” said Miguel, looking anxiously toward the horizon.
They had spread pieces of brown paper in their laps and were eating pepinos, cucumbers sprinkled with salt and ground chiles.
“I’m thirsty.
Are they selling juice in the other car?” asked Esperanza.
“I would have worked at the railroad in Mexico,” continued Miguel, as if Esperanza had not tried to change the subject.
“But it is not easy to get a job in Mexico.
You need una palanca, a lever, to get a job at the railroads.
I had no connections but your father did.
Since I was a small boy, he gave me his word that he would help me.
And he would have kept his promise.
He … he always kept his promises to me.”
At the mention of Papa, Esperanza felt that sinking feeling again.
She looked at Miguel.
He quickly turned his head away from her and looked hard out the window, but she saw that his eyes were damp.
She had never thought about how much her papa must have meant to Miguel.
It dawned on her that even though Miguel was a servant, Papa may have thought of him as the son he never had.
But Papa’s influence was gone.
What would happen to Miguel’s dreams now?
“And in the United States?” she asked quietly.
“I hear that in the United States, you do not need una palanca.
That even the poorest man can become rich if he works hard enough.”
********
They had been on the train for four days and nights when a woman got on with a wire cage containing six red hens.
The chickens squawked and cackled and when they flapped their wings, tiny russet feathers floated around the car.
The woman sat opposite Mama and Hortensia and within minutes she had told them that her name was Carmen, that her husband had died and left her with eight children, and that she had been at her brother’s house helping his family with a new baby.
“Would you like dulces, sweets?” she asked Esperanza, holding open a bag.
Esperanza looked at Mama, who smiled and nodded her approval.
Esperanza hesitantly reached inside and took out a square of coconut candy.
Mama had never permitted her to take candy from someone she didn’t know before, especially from a poor person.
“Señora, why do you travel with the hens?” asked Mama.
“I sell eggs to feed my family.
My brother raises hens and he gave these to me.”
“And you can support your large family that way?” asked Hortensia.
Carmen smiled.
“I am poor, but I am rich.
I have my children, I have a garden with roses, and I have my faith and the memories of those who have gone before me.
What more is there?”
Hortensia and Mama smiled, nodding their heads.
And after a few thoughtful moments, Mama was blotting away stray tears.
The three women continued talking as the train passed fields of corn, orange orchards, and cows grazing on rolling hills.
They talked as the train traveled through small towns, where peasant children ran after the caboose, just for the sake of running.
Soon, Mama was confiding in Carmen, telling her all that had happened with Papa and Tío Luis.
Carmen listened and made clucking noises like one of her hens, as if she understood Mama’s and Esperanza’s problems.
Esperanza looked from Mama to Carmen to Hortensia.
She was amazed at how easily Carmen had plopped herself down and had plunged into intimate conversation.
It didn’t seem correct somehow.
Mama had always been so proper and concerned about what was said and not said.
In Aguascalientes, she would have thought it was “inappropriate” to tell an egg woman their problems, yet now she didn’t hesitate.
“Mama,” whispered Esperanza, taking on a tone she had heard Mama use many times.
“Do you think it is wise to tell a peasant our personal business?”
Mama tried not to smile.
She whispered back, “It is all right, Esperanza, because now we are peasants, too.”
Esperanza ignored Mama’s comment.
What was wrong with her?
Had all of Mama’s rules changed since they had boarded this train?
When they pulled into Carmen’s town, Mama gave her three of the beautiful lace carpetas she had made.
“For your house,” she said.
Carmen gave Mama two chickens, in an old shopping bag that she tied with string.
“For your future,” she said.
Then Mama, Hortensia, and Carmen hugged as if they had been friends forever.
“Buena suerte, good luck,” they said to one another.
Alfonso and Miguel helped Carmen with her packages and the cage of chickens.
When Miguel got back on the train, he sat next to Esperanza, near the window.
They watched Carmen greet her waiting children, several of the little ones scrambling into her arms.
In front of the station, a crippled Indian woman crawled on her knees, her hand outstretched toward a group of ladies and gentlemen who were finely dressed in clothes like the ones that used to hang in Esperanza’s and Mama’s closets.
The people turned their backs on the begging woman but Carmen walked over and gave her a coin and some tortillas from her bag.
The woman blessed her, making the sign of the cross.
Then Carmen took her children’s hands and walked away.
“She has eight children and sells eggs to survive.
Yet when she can barely afford it she gave your mother two hens and helped the crippled woman,” said Miguel.
“The rich take care of the rich and the poor take care of those who have less than they have.”
“But why does Carmen need to take care of the beggar at all?” said Esperanza.
“Look.
Only a few yards away is the farmer’s market with carts of fresh food.”
Miguel looked at Esperanza, wrinkled his forehead, and shook his head.
“There is a Mexican saying: ‘Full bellies and Spanish blood go hand in hand.’”
Esperanza looked at him and raised her eyebrows.
“Have you never noticed?” he said, sounding surprised.
“Those with Spanish blood, who have the fairest complexions in the land, are the wealthiest.”
Esperanza suddenly felt guilty and did not want to admit that she had never noticed or that it might be true.
Besides, they were going to the United States now and it certainly would not be true there.
Esperanza shrugged.
“It is just something that old wives say.”
“No,” said Miguel.
“It is something the poor say.”
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CHAPTER VI. LOS MELONES CANTALOUPES
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They reached the border at Mexicali in the morning.
Finally, the train stopped moving and everyone disembarked.
The land was dry and the panorama was barren except for date palms, cactus, and an occasional squirrel or roadrunner.
The conductors herded everyone into a building where they stood in long lines waiting to pass through immigration.
Esperanza noticed that the people in the first cars were escorted to the shortest lines and passed through quickly.
Inside, the air was stagnant and thick with the smell of body odor.
Esperanza and Mama, their faces shiny with grime and perspiration, looked tired and wilted and they slumped with even the slight weight of their valises.
The closer Esperanza got to the front, the more nervous she became.
She looked at her papers and hoped they were in order.
What if the officials found something wrong?
Would they send her back to her uncles?
Would they arrest her and put her in jail?
She reached the desk and handed over the documents.
The immigration official seemed angry for no reason.
“Where are you coming from?”
She looked at Mama who was behind her.
“We are from Aguascalientes,” said Mama, stepping forward.
“And what is your purpose for entering the United States?”
Esperanza was afraid to speak.
What if she said the wrong thing?
“To work,” said Mama, handing him her documents as well.
“What work?” demanded the man.
Mama’s demeanor changed.
She stood up straight and tall and deliberately blotted her face with a handkerchief.
She looked directly into the official’s eyes and spoke calmly as if she were giving simple directions to a servant.
“I am sure you can see that everything is in order.
The name of the employer is written there.
People are expecting us.”
The man studied Mama.
He looked at their faces, then the pages, then their faces again.
Standing tall and proud, Mama never took her eyes from his face.
Why was it taking so long?
Finally, he grabbed the stamp and pounded each page with the words “Mexican National.”
He shoved their papers at them and waved them through.
Mama took Esperanza’s hand and hurried her toward another train.
They boarded and waited an hour for all the passengers to get through immigration.
Esperanza looked out the window.
Across the tracks, several groups of people were being prodded onto another train headed back toward Mexico.
“My heart aches for those people.
They came all this way just to be sent back,” said Mama.
“But why?” asked Esperanza.
“Many reasons.
They had no papers, false ones, or no proof of work.
Or there might have been a problem with just one member of the family so they all chose to go back instead of being separated.”
Esperanza thought about being separated from Mama and gratefully took her hand and squeezed it.
Almost everyone had boarded except Alfonso, Hortensia, and Miguel.
Esperanza kept looking for them, and she became more anxious with each passing minute.
“Mama, where are they?”
Mama said nothing but Esperanza could see worry in her eyes, too.
Finally, Hortensia got on.
The train’s engines began to chug.
Her voice tense, Esperanza said, “What happened to Alfonso and Miguel?”
Hortensia pointed out the window.
“They had to find some water.”
Alfonso was running toward the train with Miguel close behind, waving the secret package and grinning.
The train slowly started moving as they hopped on.
Esperanza wanted to be angry at them for making her anxious.
She wanted to yell at them for waiting until the very last minute just so they could find water for their package that was probably nonsense anyway.
But looking from one to the other, she sat back, limp with relief, happy to have them all together surrounding her, and surprised that she could be so glad to be back on the train.
********
“Anza, we’re here.
Wake up!”
She sat up groggily, barely opening her eyes.
“What day is this?” she asked.
“You’ve been asleep for hours.
Wake up!
It is Thursday.
And we are here in Los Angeles!”
“Look, there they are!” said Alfonso, pointing out the window.
“My brother, Juan, and Josefina, his wife.
And his children, Isabel and the twins.
They have all come.”
A campesino family waved to them.
Juan and Josefina each held a baby about a year old in their arms.
It was easy to see that the man was Alfonso’s brother, even though he didn’t have a mustache.
Josefina was plump with a round face and a complexion that was fairer than Esperanza’s.
She was smiling and waving with her free hand.
Next to her stood a girl about eight years old, wearing a dress that was too big and shoes with no socks.
Delicate and frail, with big brown eyes, long braids, and skinny legs, she looked like a young deer.
Esperanza couldn’t help but think how much she looked like the doll Papa had given her.
There was much hugging among all the relatives.
Alfonso said, “Everyone, this is Señora Ortega and Esperanza.”
“Alfonso, please call me Ramona.”
“Yes, of course, Señora.
My family feels like they know you because we have all written letters about you for years.”
Mama hugged Juan and Josefina and said, “Thank you for all you have done for us already.”
Miguel teased his cousin, pulling her braids.
“Esperanza, this is Isabel.”
Isabel looked at Esperanza, her eyes wide with wonder, and in a voice that was soft and whispery said, “Were you really so very wealthy?
Did you always get your way, and have all the dolls and fancy dresses you wanted?”
Esperanza’s mouth pressed into an irritated line.
She could only imagine the letters Miguel had written.
Had he told Isabel that in Mexico they stood on different sides of the river?
“The truck is this way,” said Juan.
“We have a long ride.”
Esperanza picked up her valise and followed Isabel’s father.
She looked around and was relieved to see that compared to the desert, Los Angeles had lush palms and green grass and even though it was September, roses were still blooming in the flower beds.
She took a deep breath.
The aroma of oranges from a nearby grove was reassuring and familiar.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so different here.
Juan, Josefina, Mama, and Hortensia crowded onto the front seat of the rickety truck.
Isabel, Esperanza, Alfonso, and Miguel sat in the truck bed with the babies and the two red hens.
The vehicle looked like it should be hauling animals instead of people, but Esperanza had said nothing to Mama.
Besides, after so many days on the train, it felt good to stretch out her legs.
The old jalopy rocked and swayed as it climbed out of the San Fernando Valley, weaving up through hills covered with dried-out shrubs.
She sat with her back against the cab and the hot wind whipped her loose hair.
Alfonso tied a blanket across the wooden slats to make a canopy of shade.
The babies, Lupe and Pepe, a girl and a boy, were dark-eyed cherubs, with thick mops of black hair.
Esperanza was surprised at how much they looked alike; the only difference was the tiny gold earrings in Lupe’s ears.
Pepe crawled into Esperanza’s lap and Lupe into Isabel’s.
When the baby fell asleep against Esperanza, his head slid down her arm, leaving a stream of perspiration.
“Is it always so hot here?” she asked.
“My papa says it is the dry air that makes it so hot and sometimes it is even hotter,” said Isabel.
“But it is better than living in El Centro because now we do not have to live in a tent.”
“A tent?”
“Last year we worked for another farm in El Centro in the Imperial Valley, not too far from the border.
We were there during the melons.
We lived in a tent with a dirt floor and had to carry water.
We cooked outside.
But then we moved north to Arvin.
That’s where we’re going now.
A big company owns the camp.
We pay seven dollars a month and my papa says it is worth it to have piped-in cold water and electricity and a kitchen inside.
He says the farm is six thousand acres.”
Isabel leaned toward Esperanza and grinned as if she were telling a big secret.
“And a school.
Next week, I get to go to school, and I will learn to read.
Can you read?”
“Of course,” said Esperanza.
“Will you go to school?” asked Isabel.
“I went to private school and started when I was four so I have already passed through level eight.
When my grandmother comes, maybe I will go to high school.”
“Well, when I go to school, I will learn in English,” said Isabel.
Esperanza nodded and tried to smile back.
Isabel was so happy, she thought, about such little things.
The brown, barren mountains rose higher and a red-tailed hawk seemed to follow them for miles.
The truck rattled up a steep grade past sparse, dry canyons and Esperanza’s ears began to feel full and tight.
“How much longer?”
“We will stop for lunch soon,” said Isabel.
They wove through the golden hills, softly sculpted with rounded tops, until Juan finally slowed the truck and turned down a side road.
When they came to an area shaded by a single tree, they piled out of the truck and Josefina spread a blanket on the ground, then unwrapped a bundle of burritos, avocados, and grapes.
They sat in the shade and ate.
Mama, Hortensia, and Josefina chatted and watched the babies while Isabel lay down on the blanket between Alfonso and Juan.
She was soon asleep.
Esperanza wandered away from the group, grateful not to be rocking in a truck or a train.
She walked to an overlook.
Below, canyons plunged to an arroyo, a silver line of water from an unknown river.
It was quiet and peaceful here, the sweet silence broken only by the swish of dried grasses from the wind.
With her feet solid on the ground for the first time in many days, Esperanza remembered what Papa had taught her when she was little: If she lay on the land, and was very still and quiet, she could hear the heartbeat of the valley.
“Can I hear it from here, Papa?”
She stretched out on her stomach and reached her arms to the side, hugging the earth.
She let the stillness settle upon her and listened.
She heard nothing.
Be patient, she reminded herself, and the fruit will fall into your hand.
She listened again, but the heartbeat was not there.
She tried one more time, desperately wanting to hear it.
But there was no reassuring thump repeating itself.
No sound of the earth’s heartbeat.
Or Papa’s.
There was only the prickly sound of dry grass.
Determined, Esperanza pressed her ear harder to the ground.
“I can’t hear it!” She pounded the earth.
“Let me hear it.”
Tears burst from her eyes as if someone had squeezed an overripe orange.
Confusion and uncertainty spilled forth and became an arroyo of their own.
She rolled on her back, her tears worming down her face into her ears.
Seeing nothing but the vast sky in dizzying swirls of blue and white, she began to feel as if she were floating and drifting upward.
She lifted higher and part of her liked the sensation but another part of her felt untethered and frightened.
She tried to find the place in her heart where her life was anchored, but she couldn’t, so she closed her eyes and pressed the palms of her hands against the earth, making sure it was there.
She felt as if she were falling, careening through the hot air.
Her skin perspired and she felt cold and nauseous.
She took short breaths, heaving in and out.
Suddenly, the world went black.
Someone hovered over her.
She sat up quickly.
How long had she been in the darkness?
She held her pounding chest and looked up at Miguel.
“Anza, are you all right?”
She took a deep breath and brushed off her dress.
Had she really floated above the earth?
Had Miguel seen her?
She knew her face was red and blotchy.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, wiping the tears from her face.
“Don’t tell Mama.
You know … she worries …”
Miguel nodded.
He sat down close to her.
Without asking any questions, he took her hand and stayed with her, the quiet interrupted only by her occasional staccato breaths.
“I miss him, too,” Miguel whispered, squeezing her hand.
“I miss the ranch and Mexico and Abuelita, everything.
And I am sorry about what Isabel said to you.
I meant nothing by it.”
She stared at the dark brown and purple ridges staggered in the distance and let the ripe tears cascade down her cheeks.
And this time, Esperanza did not let go of Miguel’s hand.
********
They were heading down a steep grade on Highway 99 when Isabel said, “Look!”
Esperanza leaned around the side of the truck.
As they rounded a curve, it appeared as if the mountains pulled away from each other, like a curtain opening on a stage, revealing the San Joaquin Valley beyond.
Flat and spacious, it spread out like a blanket of patchwork fields.
Esperanza could see no end to the plots of yellow, brown, and shades of green.
The road finally leveled out on the valley floor, and she gazed back at the mountains from where they’d come.
They looked like monstrous lions’ paws resting at the edge of the ridge.
A big truck blew its horn and Juan pulled over to let it pass, its bed bulging with cantaloupes.
Another truck and another did the same.
A caravan of trucks passed them, all piled high with the round melons.
On one side of the highway, acres of grapevines stretched out in soldiered rows and swallowed up the arbors.
On the other side, fields and fields of dark green cotton plants became a sea of milk-white puffs.
This was not a gently rolling landscape like Aguascalientes.
For as far as the eye could travel, the land was unbroken by even a hillock.
Esperanza felt dizzy looking at the repeated straight rows of grapes and had to turn her head away.
They finally turned east off the main highway.
The truck went slower now and Esperanza could see workers in the fields.
People waved and Juan honked the truck horn in return.
Then he pulled the truck to the side of the road and pointed to a field that had been cleared of its harvest.
Dried, rambling vines covered the acre and leftover melons dotted the ground.
“The field markers are down.
We can take as many as we can carry,” he called back to them.
Alfonso jumped out, tossed a dozen cantaloupes to Miguel, then stepped up on the running board and slapped the top of the truck for Juan to start again.
The melons, warmed by the valley sun, rolled and somersaulted with each bump of the truck.
Two girls walking along the road waved and Juan stopped again.
One of them climbed in, a girl about Miguel’s age.
Her hair was short, black, and curly and her features were sharp and pointed.
She leaned back against the side of the truck, her hands behind her head, and she studied Esperanza, her eyes darting at Miguel whenever she could.
“This is Marta,” said Isabel.
“She lives at another camp where they pick cotton but it is owned by a different company.
Her aunt and uncle live at our camp so she stays with them sometimes.”
“Where are you from?” asked Marta.
“Aguascalientes.
El Rancho de las Rosas,” said Esperanza.
“I have never heard of El Rancho de las Rosas.
Is that a town?”
“It was the ranch they lived on,” said Isabel proudly, her eyes round and shining.
“Esperanza’s father owned it and thousands of acres of land.
She had lots of servants and beautiful dresses and she went to private school, too.
Miguel is my cousin and he and his parents worked for them.”
“So you’re a princess who’s come to be a peasant?
Where’s all your finery?”
Esperanza stared at her and said nothing.
“What’s the matter, silver spoon stuck in your mouth?”
Her voice was smart and biting.
“A fire destroyed everything.
She and her mother have come to work, like the rest of us,” said Miguel.
Confused, Isabel added, “Esperanza’s nice.
Her papa died.”
“Well, my father died, too,” said Marta.
“Before he came to this country, he fought in the Mexican revolution against people like her father who owned all the land.”
Esperanza stared back at Marta, unblinking.
What had she done to deserve this girl’s insults?
Through gritted teeth, she said, “You know nothing of my papa.
He was a good, kind man who gave much of his property to his servants.”
“That might be so,” said Marta.
“But there were plenty of the rich who did not.”
“That was not my papa’s fault.”
Isabel pointed to one of the fields, trying to change the subject.
“Those people are Filipinos,” she said.
“They live in their own camp.
And see over there?”
She pointed to a field down the road.
“Those people are from Oklahoma.
They live in Camp 8.
There’s a Japanese camp, too.
We all live separate and work separate.
They don’t mix us.”
“They don’t want us banding together for higher wages or better housing,” said Marta.
“The owners think if Mexicans have no hot water, that we won’t mind as long as we think no one has any.
They don’t want us talking to the Okies from Oklahoma or anyone else because we might discover that they have hot water.
See?”
“Do the Okies have hot water?” asked Miguel.
“Not yet, but if they get it, we will strike.”
“Strike?” said Miguel.
“You mean you will stop working?
Don’t you need your job?”
“Of course I need my job, but if all the workers join together and refuse to work, we might all get better conditions.”
“Are the conditions so bad?” asked Miguel.
“Some are decent.
The place you are going to is one of the better ones.
They even have fiestas.
There’s a jamaica this Saturday night.”
Isabel turned to Esperanza.
“You will love the jamaicas.
We have them every Saturday night during the summer.
There is music and food and dancing.
This Saturday is the last for this year because soon it will be too cold.”
Esperanza nodded and tried to pay attention to Isabel.
Marta and Miguel talked and grinned back and forth.
An unfamiliar feeling was creeping up inside of Esperanza.
She wanted to toss Marta out of the moving truck and scold Miguel for even talking to her.
Hadn’t he seen her rudeness?
She brooded as they rode past miles of young tamarisk trees that seemed to be the border of someone’s property.
“Beyond those trees is the Mexican camp,” said Isabel, “where we live.”
Marta smirked at Esperanza and said, “Just so you know.
This isn’t Mexico.
No one will be waiting on you here.”
Then she gave her a phony smile and said, “¿Entiendes?
Understand?”
Esperanza stared back at her in silence.
The one thing she did understand was that she did not like Marta.
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CHAPTER VII. LAS CEBOLLAS ONIONS
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“We’re here,” said Isabel, as the truck turned into camp and slowed to a crawl.
Esperanza stood up and looked over the cab.
They were in a large clearing, surrounded by grape fields.
Row upon row of white wooden cabins formed long lines, connected like bunkhouses.
Each cabin had one small window and two wooden steps that led to the door.
She couldn’t help but think that they weren’t even as nice as the servants’ cabins in Aguascalientes.
They reminded Esperanza more of the horse stalls on the ranch than of a place for people to live.
A big mountain loomed in the east, framing one side of the valley.
Marta jumped out and ran toward some girls standing together near the cabins.
Esperanza could hear them talking in English, the words hard and clipped, as if they were speaking with sticks in their mouths.
They all looked at her and laughed.
She turned away, thinking that if Isabel could learn English, then maybe someday she could learn it, too.
A line of flatbed trucks pulled into a clearing and campesinos hopped down, home from the fields.
People called to one another.
Children ran to their fathers yelling, “Papi! Papi!”
Esperanza felt a deep pang.
She watched and wondered how she would fit into this world.
Isabel pointed to a wooden building off to the side.
“That’s where they have all the toilets.”
Esperanza cringed as she tried to imagine having no privacy.
“We’re lucky,” said Isabel solemnly.
“In some camps, we had to go in ditches.”
Esperanza looked down at her, swallowed, and nodded, suddenly thankful for something.
A foreman came over and shook hands with Juan and Alfonso and pointed to the cabin in front of the truck.
The women got out, took the babies, and helped Miguel with the bags.
Mama and Esperanza walked into the cabin.
It had two small rooms.
One half of the front room was the kitchen with a stove, sink, and counter, and a table and chairs.
A pile of wood waited near the stove.
Across the room was a mattress on the floor.
The back room had another mattress big enough for two people and a tiny cot.
In between sat a wooden fruit crate, to be used as a night table, its sides touching each bed.
Above was another small window.
Mama looked around and then gave Esperanza a weak smile.
“Is this our cabin or Hortensia’s and Alfonso’s?” asked Esperanza, hoping that hers and Mama’s might be better.
“We are all together in this cabin,” said Mama.
“Mama, we can’t possibly all fit!”
“Esperanza, they will only give one cabin for each man with a family.
There is no housing for single women.
This is a family camp so we must have a male head of household to live and work here.
And that is Alfonso.”
Mama sank to the bed.
Her voice sounded tired.
“He has told them we are his cousins and if anyone asks us, we must say it’s true.
Otherwise we cannot stay.
We are next door to Juan and Josefina so we can adjust the sleeping arrangements.
Miguel will sleep next door with them and the babies.
And Isabel will sleep here with Alfonso, Hortensia, and us.”
Miguel came in and set down their valises, then left.
Esperanza could hear Alfonso and Hortensia in the next room, talking about the camp office.
Mama got up to unpack and began to sing.
Esperanza felt anger crawling up her throat.
“Mama, we are living like horses!
How can you sing?
How can you be happy?
We don’t even have a room to call our own.”
The talking suddenly stopped in the other room.
Mama gave Esperanza a long, hard look.
She calmly walked over and shut the door to the small room.
“Sit down,” she said.
Esperanza sat on the tiny cot, its springs screeching.
Mama sat on the bed opposite her, their knees almost touching.
“Esperanza, if we had stayed in Mexico and I had married Tío Luis, we would have had one choice.
To be apart and miserable.
Here, we have two choices.
To be together and miserable or to be together and happy.
Mija, we have each other and Abuelita will come.
How would she want you to behave?
I choose to be happy.
So which will you choose?”
She knew what Mama wanted to hear.
“Happy,” she said quietly.
“Do you know how lucky we are, Esperanza?
Many people come to this valley and wait months for a job.
Juan went to a lot of trouble to make sure we had this cabin waiting for us when we got here.
Please be grateful for the favors bestowed upon us.”
Mama bent over and kissed her, then left the room.
Esperanza laid down on the cot.
A few minutes later, Isabel came in and sat on the bed.
“Will you tell me what it was like to be so very rich?”
She looked at Isabel, her eyes anticipating some wonderful story.
Esperanza was quiet for a moment, clinging to one possible thought.
Then she said, “I am still rich, Isabel.
We will only be here until Abuelita is well enough to travel.
Then she will come with her money and we will buy a big house.
A house that Papa would have been proud for us to live in.
Maybe we will buy two houses so that Hortensia, Alfonso, and Miguel can live in one and work for us again.
And you can visit us, Isabel.
You see, this is only temporary.
We will not be here for long.”
“¿De veras?” asked Isabel.
“Yes, it is the truth,” said Esperanza, staring at the ceiling that someone had covered with newspaper and cardboard.
“My papa would never have wanted us to live in a place like this.”
She closed her eyes and heard Isabel tiptoe out of the room and shut the door.
The weariness from the days of travel flooded over her, and her mind wandered from people peeing in ditches, to Marta’s rudeness, to the horse stalls at El Rancho de las Rosas.
How could she be happy or grateful when she had never been more miserable in her life?
********
When Esperanza opened her eyes again, it was almost light and she heard Mama, Hortensia, and Alfonso talking in the next room.
She had slept through dinner and the entire night.
She smelled café and chorizo.
The coffee and sausage made her stomach growl and she tried to remember when she had last eaten.
Isabel was still asleep in the bed next to hers so Esperanza quietly pulled on a long wrinkled skirt and white blouse.
She brushed her hair and went into the other room.
“Good morning,” said Mama.
“Sit down and eat something.
You must be starved.”
At the table, Hortensia patted her hand.
“You missed going to the foreman’s office last night.
We signed the papers to live here.
We already have work today.”
Mama put a plate of tortillas, eggs, and sausage in front of her.
“Where did all the food come from?” asked Esperanza.
“Josefina,” said Hortensia.
“She brought some groceries until we can go to the store this weekend.”
“Esperanza,” said Mama, “you and Isabel will be watching the babies while the rest of us work.
Alfonso and Juan will be picking grapes and Hortensia, Josefina, and I will be packing grapes in the sheds.”
“But I want to work with you and Hortensia and Josefina!”
“You’re not old enough to work in the sheds,” said Mama.
“And Isabel is not old enough to watch the babies by herself.
If you watch the babies, then Josefina can work and that is one more paying job between us.
We must all do our part.
You will have a camp job, too, sweeping the wooden platform every afternoon, for which they will deduct a little from our rent each month.
Isabel can show you what to do later.”
“What’s the platform?” Esperanza asked.
“It’s the big wooden floor, outside, in the middle of the camp.
Juan said they use it for meetings and dances,” said Mama.
Esperanza stared at her food.
She did not want to be stuck in camp with the children.
“Where’s Miguel?” she said.
“He already left for Bakersfield with some other men to look for work at the railroad,” said Alfonso.
Isabel came out of the bedroom rubbing her eyes.
“Mi sobrina, my niece,” said Hortensia, hugging Isabel.
“Go say good morning to your mother and father before we all leave for work.”
Isabel hugged her and ran next door.
Esperanza studied Mama as she made un burrito de frijoles for lunch and wrapped the soft tortilla filled with pinto beans in paper.
She looked different.
Was it the long cotton dress and the big flowered apron tied at her waist?
No, it was more than that.
“Mama,” said Esperanza.
“Your hair!”
Mama’s hair ran down her back in a single long braid, almost touching her waist.
Esperanza had never seen Mama wear her hair that way.
It was always done up in her beautiful plaited bun, or when she was ready for bed, brushed out and flowing.
Mama looked shorter and, somehow, not herself.
Esperanza didn’t like it.
Mama reached up and stroked the back of her head.
She seemed embarrassed.
“I … I figured out that I can’t wear a hat with my hair on top of my head.
And this makes more sense, does it not?
After all, I am going to work today, not to a fiesta.”
Then she hugged Esperanza.
“We must go now.
The trucks leave at 6:30 to take us to the sheds.
Take good care of the babies and stay with Isabel.
She knows the camp.”
As the three of them walked out, Esperanza noticed Mama reaching up, hesitantly touching her hair again.
When Esperanza finished eating, she went outside and stood on the front step.
Instead of facing another row of cabins, their cabin was in the last row facing the fields.
Straight ahead, across a dirt road, were several chinaberry trees and a mulberry tree that provided deep shade over a wooden table.
Beyond the row of trees were grape fields, still lush.
To the right, across a grassy field, was the main road.
A truck piled high with produce drove by, losing a cloud of debris.
After it passed, the sharp smell told her they were onions, the dry outer skins being shredded by the wind.
Another truck followed.
Again the smell bit into her senses.
It was still early so the air was cool, but the sun was bright and she knew it would be hot soon.
The hens pecked and poked around the front steps.
They must have been happy to be off the train.
Esperanza shooed them out of her way as she turned and walked next door.
The babies were still in their pajamas.
Isabel was struggling to feed Lupe her oatmeal while Pepe crawled on the floor.
Splotches of his cereal still stuck to his cheeks.
As soon as he saw Esperanza, he reached up for her.
“Let’s clean them up,” said Isabel.
“And then I’ll show you the camp.”
First, Isabel took Esperanza to the platform she was to sweep and showed her where the brooms were stored.
Then they walked through the rows of cabins, each with a baby on her hip.
As they passed open doors, Esperanza could already smell the beans and onions that someone had started simmering for dinner.
Women were dragging big metal washtubs beneath the shade trees.
A group of young boys kicked a ball up and down the dirt road, stirring up dust.
A little girl, wearing a man’s undershirt as a dress, ran up to Isabel and took her hand.
“This is Silvia.
She is my best friend.
Next week, we will go to school together.”
Silvia switched around and grabbed Esperanza’s free hand.
Esperanza looked down at Silvia’s dirty hands.
Silvia grinned up at her and Esperanza’s first thought was to pull her hand away and wash it as soon as possible.
Then she remembered Mama’s kindness to the peasant girl on the train — and her disappointment in Esperanza.
She didn’t want Silvia to start crying if she were to pull away.
She looked around at the dusty camp and thought that it must be hard to stay clean in such a place.
She squeezed Silvia’s hand and said, “I have a best friend, too.
Her name is Marisol and she lives in Aguascalientes.”
Isabel introduced Esperanza to Irene and Melina, two women who were hanging clothes to dry on a long line stretched between the cabins and a tree.
Irene had long gray hair tied in a tail.
Melina didn’t look much older than Miguel and she already had a baby of her own.
“We heard the story of how you came from Aguascalientes,” said Melina.
“My husband is from there.
He used to work for Señor Rodríguez.”
Esperanza’s face lit up at this news.
“He knew my father since he was a boy.
Do you think your husband knew Marisol, Señor Rodríguez’s daughter?”
Melina laughed.
“No, no.
I’m sure he didn’t.
He was un campesino, a field servant.
He would not know the family.”
Esperanza felt awkward and didn’t mean to make Melina admit that her husband was a servant.
But Melina didn’t seem bothered and began recalling other farms her husband had worked on in Aguascalientes.
Isabel pulled on Esperanza’s arm.
“We need to change the babies.”
As they walked back to the cabin, she said, “They are mother and daughter.
They come over to talk and crochet with my mother all the time.”
“How do they know all about us already?”
Isabel raised her hand and made her fingers tap up and down on her thumb as if a mouth was talking.
“Everyone in camp knows each other’s business.”
********
“Do you know how to change a diaper?” asked Esperanza when they got back to the cabin.
“Certainly,” said Isabel.
“I will change them and you can rinse out the diapers.
We need to do some laundry, too.”
Esperanza watched as the young girl laid the babies down one at a time, unpinned their diapers, wiped their bottoms clean, and pinned on fresh diapers.
Isabel handed Esperanza the smelly bundles and said, “Take them to the toilets and dump them and I’ll fill the washtub.”
Esperanza held them at arm’s length and almost ran to the toilets.
Several more onion trucks passed by, their smell accosting her eyes and nose as much as the diapers.
By the time she got back, Isabel had already filled two washtubs with water from an outside pipe and was swirling soap around in one of them.
A washboard was propped inside.
Esperanza went to the washtub and hesitated, staring into the water.
Bits of onion skins floated on the surface of the soapy water.
She held a corner of one of the diapers, lightly dipping it in and out of the water, her hand never getting wet.
After a few seconds, she gingerly lifted the diaper from the water.
“Now what?” she said.
“Esperanza!
You must scrub them!
Like this.”
Isabel walked over, took the diapers, and plunged them into the water up to her elbows.
The water quickly became murky.
She rubbed the diapers with soap, vigorously scrubbed them back and forth on the washboard, and wrung them out.
Then she transferred them to the next tub, rinsing and wringing again.
Isabel shook out the clean diapers and hung them on the line stretched between the chinaberry and mulberry trees.
Then she started on the clothes.
Esperanza was amazed.
She had never washed anything in her life and Isabel, who was only eight years old, made it look so easy.
Puzzled, Isabel looked at Esperanza.
“Don’t you know how to wash clothes?”
“Well, Hortensia took everything out to the laundry quarters.
And the servants, they always …” She looked at Isabel and shook her head no.
Isabel’s eyes got bigger and she looked worried.
“Esperanza, when I go to school next week, you will be here alone with the babies and will have to do the laundry.”
Esperanza took a deep breath and said weakly, “I can learn.”
“And later today, you must sweep the platform.
You … you do know how to sweep?”
“Of course,” said Esperanza.
She had seen people sweep many times.
Many, many times, she assured herself.
Besides, she was already too embarrassed about the washing to admit anything else to Isabel.
********
Isabel sat with the babies while Esperanza went to sweep the platform.
The camp was quiet and even though it was late in the day, the sun was unrelenting.
She retrieved the broom and stepped onto the wooden floor.
Dried and brittle onion skins were everywhere.
In her entire life, Esperanza had never held a broom in her hand.
But she had seen Hortensia sweep and she tried to visualize the memory.
It couldn’t possibly be that hard.
She put both hands near the middle of the broomstick and moved it back and forth.
It swung wildly.
The motion seemed awkward and the fine dirt on the wooden planks lifted into a cloud.
Onion jackets flew into the air instead of gathering together in a neat pile like Hortensia’s.
Esperanza’s elbows did not know what to do.
Neither did her arms.
She felt streams of perspiration sliding down her neck.
She stopped for a moment and stared at the broom, as if willing it to behave.
Determined, she tried again.
She hadn’t noticed that several trucks were already unloading workers nearby.
Then she heard it.
First a small tittering and then louder.
She turned around.
A group of women were laughing at her.
And in the middle of the group was Marta, pointing.
“¡La Cenicienta!
Cinderella!” she laughed.
Burning with humiliation, Esperanza dropped the broom and ran back to the cabin.
In her room, she sat on the edge of the cot.
Her face flushed again at the thought of the ridicule.
She was still sitting there, staring at the wall, when Isabel found her.
“I said I could work.
I told Mama I could help.
But I cannot even wash clothes or sweep a floor.
Does the whole camp know?”
Isabel sat down on the bed next to her and patted her back.
“Yes.”
Esperanza groaned.
“I will never be able to show my face.”
She put her head in her hands until she heard someone else come into the room.
Esperanza looked up to see Miguel, holding a broom and a dustpan.
But he wasn’t laughing.
She looked down and bit her lip so she wouldn’t cry in front of him.
He shut the door, then stood in front of her and said, “How would you know how to sweep a floor?
The only thing that you ever learned was how to give orders.
That is not your fault.
Anza, look at me.”
She looked up.
“Pay attention,” he said, his face serious.
“You hold the broom like this.
One hand here and the other here.”
Esperanza watched.
“Then you push like this.
Or pull it toward you like this.
Here, you try,” he said, holding out the broom.
Slowly, Esperanza got up and took the broom from him.
He positioned her hands on the handle.
She tried to copy him but her movements were too big.
“Smaller strokes,” said Miguel, coaching.
“And sweep all in one direction.”
She did as he said.
“Now, when you get all the dirt into a pile, you hold the broom down here, near the bottom, and push the dirt into the pan.”
Esperanza collected the dirt.
“See, you can do it.”
Miguel raised his thick eyebrows and smiled.
“Someday, you just might make a very good servant.”
Isabel giggled.
Esperanza could not yet find humor in the situation.
Somberly she said, “Thank you, Miguel.”
He grinned and bowed.
“At your service, mi reina.”
But this time, his voice was kind.
She remembered that he had gone to look for work at the railroad.
“Did you get a job?”
His smile faded.
He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders.
“It is frustrating.
I can fix any engine.
But they will only hire Mexicans to lay track and dig ditches, not as mechanics.
I’ve decided to work in the fields until I can convince someone to give me a chance.”
Esperanza nodded.
After he left the room, Isabel said, “He calls you mi reina!
Will you tell me about your life as a queen?”
Esperanza sat on the mattress and patted the spot next to her.
Isabel sat down.
“Isabel, I will tell you all about how I used to live.
About parties and private school and beautiful dresses.
I will even show you the beautiful doll my papa bought me, if you will teach me how to pin diapers, how to wash, and …”
Isabel interrupted her.
“But that is so easy!”
Esperanza stood up and carefully practiced with the broom.
“It is not easy for me.”