Return to Sender (17 page)

I know you miss your guitar, too. The
patrón's
younger son told us that you asked if you could be allowed to have your Wilmita with you, but it is not permitted. It made me wonder what I would miss the most if I were locked up in a jail. Besides my family, it would be my letter writing (though I think this is permitted) and then very small things like catching snowflakes on my tongue or looking up at the stars on a clear night.

Maybe it just makes you miss your freedom more to hear me mention these things? But sometimes, Tío, like when you sing
“La Golondrina”
and feel transported back to México through the song, something similar happens when I write. Mamá once told me that just writing a letter to someone would make me feel less alone, and she was right! I have written to her, and even to Abuelita, and while I am
writing, I feel they are back. Also, when I write you these letters, it's as if I am talking face to face with you again. And not only that, Tío, but I am able to tell you things I never could in person.

The
patrón's
wife told us that you are in jail with seven other men, and a half- dozen jailers, none of whom speak Spanish. She said that one of the deputies told her everybody feels sorry because you have no one to talk to. Which is why they allowed the
patrón's
wife to bring you that box of cookies my sisters and I made with the grandmother just for you. I'm sorry the parrots came out looking like socks with beaks.

We also met your lawyer, who came over with the
patrón's
wife and our Spanish teacher after their first visit to introduce himself. He doesn't look like a lawyer—don't you agree? Maybe it's his red hair or how he wears jeans and a little earring in his ear like a girl. (I know pirates wear them, too.) But he is very smart and has told me a dozen times he wants to learn Spanish so he can defend the rights of oppressed people from the impoverished Americas. When he talks like that I feel embarrassed that I have a brand- new backpack and a tummy full of parrot cookies and a warm bedroom with stars on the ceiling that I'll tell you about later in this letter.

First, I have very exciting news: we think Mamá called! While we were meeting in the
trailer after that first visit, the
patrón's
younger son came racing over to report that our mother was calling us on their telephone. We all ran out of the trailer like it was in flames, across the yard to the
patrón's
house. The sister was standing in the kitchen, clutching the phone to her chest like she was afraid it might run away from her. Papá grabbed it and cried out,
“¿Mi amor?”
When he kept repeating the same words over and over, my heart sank. I knew what must have happened. The call had been disconnected.

We did not know what to do! Then Sara remembered that you could hit a certain number to call back the caller, but by the time she'd gotten the phone back from Papá, who didn't want to let go, it was too late. The phone on the other end just rang and rang.

After we got back to the trailer, we called Abuelota and Abuelote to see if maybe Mamá had called them. But no, Abuelota said, they had not received any calls. Then every one of us got on quickly to wish them a merry Christmas.
“Feliz Navidad,”
they wished us back. As we were saying goodbye, Abuelota asked, “What about Felipito? Are you not going to put him on?”

Papá made an excuse that you were still at work, as he did not want to worry her. But he is already wondering how we are going to handle your absence when we call again tomorrow to
wish them a happy and healthy and prosperous new year.

The lawyer is trying to see if the jailers can allow you a phone card. He said that prisoners are only permitted to make collect calls on the jail phone, but we explained that Abuelota and Abuelote don't own a phone, and the grocery store where they receive their calls would never accept a collect call. But the jailers have been putting aside many rules as you are a “special case.” Most Mexicans are sent right down to Boston or New York to big deportation centers, but because you have a criminal charge, you have to stay in the friendly neighborhood jail until that's cleared up. Lucky-unlucky, as Papá always says about you.

Before I close with all our best wishes for next year, I hope that you have noticed the beautiful stationery this letter is written on, a Christmas gift from the
patrón's
family. Now that you can receive letters, this one will be in your actual hands, not on the other side of the bulletproof glass, as the
patrón's
younger son described in a card he gave me for Christmas. And guess what else he gave me? Some beautiful little stars that you paste on your ceiling and they glow in the dark. I told the
patrón's
son that they must have been invented by a prisoner who missed seeing the night sky.

I am slipping one of them inside this envelope. She is like the seventh sister of the Pleiades that you can't see with just your eyes the way you can her six sister stars. But the
patrón's
younger son showed her to me with his telescope!

Keep this lucky star until you can look at the real ones in the night sky once you are free.

Muchos besitos y abrazos,

Mari

7 enero 2006

Querido Tío,

Yesterday was Three Kings Day and we had a special dinner at the grandmother's house.

We had told her how on Three Kings Day, Mexican people make a special cake that has nuts and fruits, which she said sounded just like fruitcake. The only thing is the American fruitcake doesn't have the little baby Jesus inside. In México, whoever gets the baby in their slice has to throw a big party on February 2nd, which is Día de la Candelaria, or Day of the Candles, when Jesus was baptized.

“Why, that's our Groundhog Day,” the grandmother said, shaking her head. She
explained how on that day Americans wait for the groundhog to tell them if winter is over. “If he comes out and doesn't see his shadow, that means an early spring. If he does, six more weeks of winter. It's ridiculous,” the grandmother agreed when she saw the look on our faces. “You know, I think I must be a Mexican at heart. I like your holidays so much more than ours!”

So the grandmother decided to have everyone to supper and celebrate Three Kings the Mexican way. Only thing is they don't sell baby Jesuses to put in your fruitcake here in the grocery stores. But Ofie offered to let the grandmother borrow the teensy baby that came with her dollhouse family. Guess who got the piece with the baby inside it? Me!

But I won't throw a party unless you are free, which I am hoping will be soon so we can celebrate Candlemas all together.

Now that we're back at school, I worry that these two mean boys in my class will find out about you being in prison and make fun of me. It is not that I am not proud of you, Tío, just that I don't know how to defend myself against them. I am writing their full names here so the police know to look out for them, Ronnie Pellegrini and Clayton Lacroix.

My Spanish teacher has promised not to say anything about your capture. She says it's
nobody's business. We think of her as our
madrina
because she has been like our godmother in this country. “And you are
las hijitas
I never had,” she told us the other day. I didn't dare ask her why she hadn't had any kids, but you know Ofie, how bold she can be. Our
madrina
replied that until very recently, she had not found the right man. “So why don't you have one now?” Ofie asked. Can you believe her rudeness? Thank goodness Papá was not around to correct her. Ofie might as well have said, You are getting too old, you know. Our Spanish teacher is about Papá's age, or older.

She just laughed and told Ofie, “You better talk to my gringo about this!” That's what she calls her boyfriend, “my gringo”—to his face! She says he just laughs and calls her right back “my hot tamale”!!!!

Last Monday, the government offices opened again after the holidays, so the
patrón's
wife says your criminal hearing could happen as soon as next week. We know that the deputy is getting permission for you to call Abuelota with the phone card we sent. She still just thinks you have gotten work at another farm and that is why you are calling separately. Papá says to please play along. When you are released, that is soon enough for her to know what has happened.

We have not heard again from Mamá, but
Papá called his old friend in Carolina del Norte, the one who had promised to deliver our new number to the people now living in our old apartment. He said he had been delayed in his promise as he had been down in Florida picking oranges. But as soon as he got back a few weeks ago, he did drop in, and one of the men now living there said that before they disconnected the apartment phone—they all just use cell phones—several people had called for us and he had given them the number we had left taped to the wall. Papá's friend said he gave the new tenants our correct number with an urgent message that if a woman with Mamá's name dropped by, to please tell her to call us immediately.

Papá warns us that we must not let ourselves hope too much, but as you yourself say, Tío, hope is the poor man's bread. So I'll eat as much as I can stand with butter and sugar and jam—butter for your release, sugar for Mamá's return, and jam for the big party I'm throwing once we are all reunited as a family!

With hope and
esperanza,

Mari

14 enero 2006

Querido Tío,

This is a quick note because I did not think anyone would be visiting you today. The
patrón's
whole family went to Boston for an aunt's birthday party this weekend.

Papá and Tío Armando were just returning from the morning milking when we heard a car on our driveway. We always get nervous when that happens, especially with the
patrón's
family gone, but it was our Spanish teacher on her way to visit you. She wanted to know if we had any news or letters or packages to send. The sheriff is now allowing you to receive books and clothes as well as letters. They have to be left at the front desk to be checked out first to make sure there is nothing illegal hidden inside a pocket or a hollow book like we saw in a movie.

So while Papá and Tío Armando quickly make up the package that accompanies this letter, I am writing to say that we heard already from the lawyer that your hearing is set for next Friday, January 20th. It might be that you are out in time for Candlemas, after all, and I will get to throw my party!

Speaking of parties: the other letter I am sending along is one the
patrón's
older son
brought over. It's from some girl you met that night you went to the party with him. She heard what happened and she wanted to write you. The
patrón's
older son said this girl also wants to visit you in jail if you will allow it.

When he heard this, Papá just scratched his head and laughed. “There's that lucky- unlucky brother of mine again!” Papá claims that you have always had the worst luck and the best luck, often side by side. “He'll come out of jail with a big fine
and
a girlfriend!”

I have to close as my Spanish teacher says she doesn't want to miss her visiting time slot at the jail. But please let us know if your gringa comes to visit you. Tío Armando says to tell you that he hopes that even if she is American, she is also a hot tamale!

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo,

Mari

21 enero 2006

Querido Tío,

We were disappointed by the news the
patrón's
wife brought us last night. We thought the hearing yesterday would decide things once
and for all. But it turns out that it was just a hearing, like the word says, for the judge to hear the charges. Next Thursday, you are to return to this same judge, who will then sentence you.

The other disappointing news is that the sentence for your offense is usually no less than three and no more than six months, but you have only served a little over a month. Still, the lawyer said the judge might decide to set you free. That would be the lucky part. The unlucky part is that you would then go right into
la migra's
hands!

I know I should not worry you, Tío, but if as Mr. B. said in class, the truth will set you free, then perhaps this truth I am telling should get you out of jail and into México next week.

Abuelota and Abuelote now know that you are in jail. We didn't know how on earth they had found out. But it turns out that Tío Armando had told his wife, and Papá says telling her anything is like broadcasting it on the radio. Abuelota is so worried that you are being tortured and going without food. Papá told her that American prisons are like country clubs compared to the ones in our country. But I've never been to a country club with bars on the windows! In fact, I've never been to a country club at all. I've only seen some on TV. Papá, of course, once worked on the grounds of a fancy
one in Carolina del Norte, which he said hired a lot of Mexicans.

So please, if you can use the phone card we are putting in this envelope, please call poor worried Abuelota and Abuelote and tell them how much you are enjoying your country- club jail with its swimming pool and excellent food and wonderful service provided by Mexicans.