The Maldonado Miracle (5 page)

"In ten days."

"I don't know, Gutierrez. Maybe you should take him back."

"I can't do that."

Jose found himself disliking Eduardo already. He had thought the foreman would greet him the way people in Baja did, but the man hadn't even spoken to him.

"Please, Eduardo, we have done business before. We'll do it again."

"I will work very hard," Jose said. "And my father always works hard."

Eddie shrugged and said half-heartedly, "All right, come on."

They followed Eddie into the small office. Inside was a counter and behind it several desks. At one, a burly man in shirt sleeves was working over long pieces of paper.

Gutierrez whispered, "That is
Senor
Klosterman, the farm manager. But you deal with Eddie. Tell your father."

There was a younger man filling out papers at the counter. He nodded and smiled. Jose smiled back From the way he was dressed he looked like a
pocho
with money.

Eddie ducked behind the counter and pushed some forms across. "You're sixteen if anyone asks. Got that? Write it down. You live over in San Ardo. U.S. citizen."

"Yes,
señor,
" Jose replied. It seemed that in this whole trip nothing was truthful.

"Sign them," Gutierrez said.

Jose saw that they were written in Spanish and English. "What are they?" he whispered.

"Never mind. Work permit and health card. There, on those lines." Gutierrez seemed anxious to leave.

Jose signed the papers without reading them.

The young
pocho
glanced over, frowning at Gutierrez. He had curly hair and a neat mustache. His face was strong and confident.

Eddie reached for the papers, saying, "Seventy-five cents an hour. Your food will be a dollar seventy-five cents a day."

That was a lot of money for food, Jose thought. In Colnett, he could eat for a week on that.

He saw that the young man was still frowning at Gutierrez. Sweat had broken out on Gutierrez's forehead.

Eddie went on. "We'll put you in a cabin. They'd make a soccer ball out of you in the barracks."

Jose did not understand. "Soccer ball?"

"Nothing but bums and winos in the barracks," Eddie said.

The young man spoke to Jose. "You alone?"

"Yes,
señor.
But my father will be here soon."

The young man looked at Eddie. "I think it might be safer if he stayed with me."

Jose felt better. The
pocho
seemed nice.

Eddie shrugged. "I don't care."

"My name is Giron. Rafael Giron." He extended a hand to Jose. "Share my cabin until your father arrives."

"Yes,
señor.
"

"What's your name?"

"Jose Maldonado Alvarez."

Giron smiled. "Okay, Jose. We'll do this together. This is my first day here, too." He spoke to Eddie in English.

"Take Cabin 6," Eddie answered. "Morning meal at 6:30; evening between 5:30 and 7. Bus leaves here every morning except Sunday at seven o'clock. Don't miss it. And remember what I told you, boy. Sixteen. Sixteen. Sixteen."

Jose nodded.

Giron said, "Let's go."

Outside, Giron asked Gutierrez sharply, "Why are they paying Jose seventy-five cents an hour when I get a dollar and a quarter?"

Gutierrez reddened. "It is part of the arrangement."

Giron looked at him with contempt.

"Quick," Gutierrez said, "get the dog. I want to leave."

Giron glanced over at the car. "A dog?"

Jose swallowed. "Yes,
señor.
Do you mind?"

Giron laughed weakly. "I guess not."

Jose ran to open the door, and Sanchez bounded out, almost bowling him over, his stump of tail whipping.

Gutierrez climbed in, taking a quick look toward the office. "Good-bye, Jose," he said. "Good luck."

Giron snapped, "Get going."

The old Chevy left in a hurry.

T
HERE WERE TWO BUNKS
in each of the white-painted cabins, which strung out in a double row from the three barracks buildings, and the shower and toilet building. The paint was browning from age. Pepper trees were dotted around nearby.

The mattresses looked as if they had been dragged through the dust. Two gray blankets were folded at the bottom of each bunk. A naked, fly-specked bulb hung from the ceiling over a rickety table. There were two wooden chairs. A calendar from Mexicali hung on one wall at the far end. Days had been marked off as if the occupant had looked forward to leaving.

"It's very nice," Jose said, although it did smell stale.

Giron knelt down by the mattresses and began poking a finger into the seams. "I'm looking for lice," he said. "In a few days, I'll buy something and spray them."

Jose began to unpack There were wooden pegs for clothes on each wall. Giron said, "We can fix this up a bit. I'll borrow a broom and find a rag to dust."

Jose turned to look at him. His way of talking was strange. "You are not a field worker," he said.

"No, Jose. I'm a teacher."

Jose was impressed. This meant Giron had gone to college.

"I teach grammar school in East Los Angeles, but I'm working on my master's thesis. I'm doing research this summer. On migrant workers. People like you."

"What is a thesis?"

"It's like a book. Like a long report you do in school. Then I'll get another degree."

"But you should not be here," Jose said. "
A
teacher picking crops."

"For a reason," Giron answered.

"Does Eduardo know you are a teacher?"

"No," Giron said. "And let's don't tell him."

Jose shook his head. "No one seems to tell the truth up here."

Giron laughed softly. "You are wise. But sometimes it is best not to tell the truth. For me, it is now. Okay?"

Jose nodded and went on unpacking. He removed his straw crucifix from the suitcase and hung it on a nail near the foot of his bunk. He stripped out everything except the sharp kitchen knife with the deer-horn handle on it. He left that in the suitcase.

At about five-thirty, the buses returned from the fields and several hundred men poured out. Jose saw that they were mostly Mexican, but there were a few blacks and a few whites. He sat on the steps of No. 6 with Sanchez and watched while the workers went off to the barracks buildings, talking and laughing, then began filling the shower and toilet buildings.

They looked no different than other men he had seen.

About six o'clock, Jose and Giron went to the evening meal in the long, noisy mess hall with its wooden tables and heavy white chinaware. The food wasn't like what he usually had in Colnett, but it was good. Pan-fried steaks, potatoes, green beans, yellow pudding, and a pink-colored juice that didn't taste much like anything.

He sat close to Giron. There was a jabber of conversation around the room and a lot of laughter. Several of the men looked at them but said nothing.

Jose cut off half his steak and wrapped it in a paper napkin for Sanchez but Giron said, "Maybe we can make a deal with the cook. We'll go to the kitchen later. From the looks of Sanchez, he'd down that in one bite."

"He does eat a lot," Jose admitted. That was one thing neither he nor Enrique had considered.

Well after dark Jose finished his prayers before the straw crucifix, and lay down on the thin mattress. He thought about getting up again to place the horn knife by his side, but decided that was silly. Sanchez was two feet away and Giron was there, writing in a notebook beneath the dim light of the naked bulb.

Jose wanted to talk but waited until Giron had finished and had come back from the toilet. Then he said, "You were born in this country?"

"Yes, East Los Angeles. But my parents were born in Sonora."

"You are fortunate," Jose said.

"Maybe."

Giron took his clothes off, latched the screen door, and turned off the lights.

"I don't know much about Americans," Jose said.

"What do you know about them?"

"Well, they come past our adobe in trucks or trailers. Sometimes, I wait a while and then follow them. There is a good camping spot about half a mile south of Enrique's, and they often spend a few days there."

"Who is Enrique?"

"A friend of ours. He fishes."

"Um-huh."

"I go near to them—but not too near—and sit down. If they are friendly and wave, I go on up. Those trailers are something. Beds, an ice box, a stove, a toilet, a sink. They are better than most of the houses in Baja."

"I suppose so," said Giron.

"A little while ago one family came with a pickup towing a trailer. They had two motorcycles. A large one for the father. A small one for the boy. He wasn't even as old as I am. They took the motorcycles down and put on red helmets. The boy's helmet looked exactly like the father's."

Giron looked through the shadows at Jose. "Go on."

"The rest of the day they went up and down the trail on the bluff. They never smiled at all. The father's motorcycle threw dirt.
Bmrrrrr-rummmmmmmmm zzzzzzzzzzeeeeeddinn.
The boy's motorcycle had a
put-put-put-put-put
sound. They only stopped to gas up."

Jose paused. "I wanted to ride, too. Sometimes the boy would come near me and wave, but he never offered a ride. Funny The wife and daughter sat down at lite beach all day under an umbrella. It seemed strange that the father and son had come so far just to ride their motorcycles. They didn't fish or swim or play ball or even look at big Colnett. Just
brrrrrrrrrrr-rummmmmmmmmm zzzzzzeeedddin
and
put-put-put-put-put-put.
"

Giron smiled. In the darkness he could see the outline of the small figure on the opposite bunk.

"Late that afternoon I went home and fed the stock, but I came back again after the sun was down. They were all in the trailer, and the lights were on. The mother and father were shouting at each other. Then the father hit the daughter."

"What did you do then?" asked Giron.

"I went home. I could hear shouts from the trailer all the way back I wanted the boy's motorbike, but I was glad I had my own father."

Giron said quietly, "Not all Americans are like that."

"I know. There was another family that invited me in for a Coke. Before they left, they gave me an old bicycle.
It had a bad tire, but it rode well. Just last week I gave it to our Camalu cousin. They have many children in that house."

"That was kind of you, Jose," Giron said. "What does your father think about the Americans?"

Jose thought a moment. "He has never said too much about them. Neither has Enrique. Oh, they joke about all their money, but I have seen how they act around them."

"How do they act?"

"Different from the men in Ensenada. When Enrique wants to sell the tourists a
langosta
he never walks up to the trailers. He just passes by with a wet sack, carrying one in his hand. Always, the tourists will shout over to him. Then he goes up."

"And your father?"

"When my father needs money he might walk along the road with some corn. Or go by their camp with a bucket of clams, letting a few spill out. He never even looks at them until they yell."

Giron laughed softly.

"My father says it is a matter of pride. He says that in the city, people lose their pride quickly."

After a moment, Giron said, "I agree."

A train passed by about nine-thirty. Although the tracks were almost a kilometer from Haines's Main, the cabin shook, and Jose awakened with a Start. He heard the rumble and felt the cabin shaking.

"It's a train, that's all," Giron said quietly.

Jose looked over. Giron was staring up at the ceiling.

Jose tried to make himself comfortable again. In Colnett there were no trains. At night, there was no sound except the wind in the trees and the animal noises.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Jose reawakened when there was a noise outside. Sanchez was up, growling deep in his belly.

Giron sat up. "Just another dog," he said.

A
FTER BREAKFAST,
Jose said to Sanchez, "You must stay here today while I work. Not bark or cause trouble. And don't step in your water pan. Understand?"

Sanchez was sitting in the middle of the cabin, paws planted, big jaws open. He appeared to be listening, but he was ready and anxious to go wherever they went.

"Do not cause
Señor
Eddie to come down here," Jose warned. "Listen to me."

Giron, who was standing nearby, said, "I don't think I've ever seen a dog like that. He looks like a cross between a bear, a dog, and a bundle of old rugs. What's wrong with his eyes? One's green. The other one's brown."

"Nothing wrong with them. That's just the way he was made."

Giron shrugged. "It's time to go."

They started for the door, and Sanchez abruptly rose. Jose said, "Guard! Sanchez," and went out quickly.

There were a few low moans and then silence as they went on to the bus.

Stooped backs dotted the green fields, and there were splotches of deep red where fifty-pound lugs were being filled with Haines Bright-Pack tomatoes. The tomatoes were large and juicy, Jose noted. Much larger than anything his father had been able to grow in Colnett. And the earth was black and moist from continuous irrigation.

They picked steadily and quietly. A flat-bed truck idled nearby, now and then moving behind them as they advanced up the rows. Jose felt good. It had been gray when the bus turned into No. 4 field, but now the sun was out, warming his back and making his muscles supple.

There were about forty workers in the field, including six or eight women. Giron said, "The women are local people, I think. The men are mostly migrant workers."

"Illegal?"

"Some, maybe. They go from farm to farm."

Around ten o'clock, one of the younger Mexicans, or maybe he was a
pocho,
said to Jose, "Slow down."

Jose straightened up. "This is the only way I know how to work,
señor.
"

The man's eyes held a warning. "There won't be any work if you keep going that fast. Slow down."