The Maldonado Miracle (6 page)

Giron said quietly to Jose, "Go slower. Don't cause any trouble."

They bent again. Jose was a little confused. The toma
toes were there; the lugs were there. They should be filled rapidly. Perhaps the rules were different up here. He went at a slower pace.

Once, taking a lug to the truck, he passed an
americano,
a flabby man working at the end of a row. The man straightened up, grinned, and winked.

Jose smiled and kept on walking.

When he returned, the man said, "
Bueno, bueno!
"

Jose nodded and smiled, going back to Giron's side.

A third time, as Jose passed, the man whinneyed like a horse and clacked his false teeth.

Jose felt uncomfortable and hurried away.

At noon, the food truck came out from Haines Main. They got soup in a paper container; rice and beans and beef slivers. The truck left a metal container of coffee and a box of oranges, then moved on to another field.

They ate in the shade of the bus, their backs against the muddy rear wheel. All morning, the pickers had been mostly silent, but there was much talk now. A worn, gray-haired Mexican sat near them. Giron was complaining loudly about the conditions at Haines Main.

"It is heaven," the old Mexican said in Spanish. "In the old days, migrant families slept in their cars. I've seen babies suffocate in the heat near El Centro. I've felt cockroaches run across my face at night. I've eaten slop for days on end. This place is heaven. You can take a bath at night, and there is a toilet here in the fields. You don't know."

Jose noticed that some of the pickers were staring at Giron. One finally said, "There's a lot you college boys don't know."

Giron remained silent.

"It is a game you play, but you don't know you play it. It is only when you have to pay the money to eat and sleep and feed others that you understand it isn't a game," the old man went on.

Jose felt badly for Giron, and wondered why he didn't tell them he was a teacher; an important man.

When the workers began talking about something else, Jose whispered, "How did they know you were from college?"

"My hands, I suppose, or the way I talk."

Jose glanced at Giron's hands for the first time. They were not the hands of a farmer. Not like Maldonado's or Enrique's. They weren't even calloused and nicked.

Giron said, "I did it on purpose. I wanted to hear what the old man would say."

But in the cabin that evening, Giron said, "I must be more careful."

"Why?"

"The Mexicans and Chicanos suspect that I do not need to do this, and the
americano
workers have always resented us. They'll all be on my back"

"I don't understand," said Jose.

"When they had the
bracero
program, the Mexicans were under government control. Sometimes they got more money than Americans for the same work. Even the people in the towns did not like the
braceros,
I hear. They spent very little. They sent most of their money home. Before that, the Mexicans always worked cheaper. Okay?"

"Okay."

"You know Eddie is cheating you, don't you?"

"No."

"He's taking fifty cents an hour from you. Maybe he's splitting it with Klosterman. You're not getting full pay, Jose. Neither will your father. It's one reason I'm writing about this."

Jose nodded thoughtfully "Yesterday I saw Gutierrez give Eddie some of our money." It had been bothering him.

"I'm not surprised," Giron said. "They have a deal, I expect. You know how I got this cabin? Paid Eddie ten dollars."

Jose frowned. It all seemed so complicated up here. Why should there be deals? They were all earning wages. Still puzzled, he asked Giron.

Giron laughed hollowly. "People! Makes no difference whether you're Mexican or American, Jose. They do things mostly for themselves. For profit."

That had not really occurred to Jose. His father and Enrique seemed to do very little for themselves, aside from taking good care to feed their stomachs and having a few beers. He thought about it for a moment, deciding it was too large a thing to figure out all at once.

He got his towel and with Sanchez tagging along, went to the shower. He had never taken a hot shower, and he was looking forward to it. His father had rigged a cold one at Colnett with an oil drum, but most of the summer baths he had taken in a tin tub in the yard. In the winter months, he'd taken them on the floor of the adobe, his father or mother pouring in steaming water from a kettle.

On the steps of the oval-roofed, corrugated iron building, he ordered Sanchez to stay and went inside. It smelled of strong disinfectant mixed with sweat and steam. There were toilet stalls at one end of the building, near the door, and shaving basins and mirrors along one wall. In the center of the room was a long wooden bench on which to park clothing, shoes, and towels. Most of the men had gone, but a few were still coming in. A few were under the showers.

Jose put his soap and towel on an empty space on the bench. At the far end, the heavy-set
americano
picker was peeling down. His flabby body was the color of flour except for the vee at his neck, which was mahogany colored, as was his face. From his elbows down, his arms, too, were mahogany He looked painted.

Eyeing Jose, he yelled, "Hey, we got the new one tonight."

Jose did not understand what he was saying and turned his head the other way, feeling self-conscious.

The
americano
said, "He's pretty. He looks tender."

Jose heard some of the men laughing. Taking his shirt off, he felt crimson rising under his cheeks.

The
americano
laughed. "Not so tender at all, now that I see him. He's got mus-culls."

Jose wondered whether or not he should leave. Something about the way the man was talking did not seem right. But he slipped his jeans off, tossing them beside his shirt.

There was a whistle, "Whew-whew!" As he stripped on down, the whistle went, "Whew-whew-wheeeeeee..."

There were about ten open nozzles spraying into soap-slicked drains. The last nozzle wasn't being used, and Jose went over to it quickly, glancing up to see that the flabby man had moved to the next one.

"What's your name, boy?" he asked, reaching over to twist a valve.

Jose thought he understood but said nothing. This man with the soft face and double chin made him ill. He ignored him as the hot water began to spray. He scrubbed and then turned to let the water slam into his face.

The
americano
shouted, "You not very friendly, boy."

Jose felt a hand grasp his shoulder and wondered if he should shout for Sanchez. The hand held him firmly. Moving out of the stream of water, he said, "Please,
señor.
"

The man grinned. "I jus' want you an' I to be friendly."

The hand began to press. There was something strange and terrible about this man, and Jose tried to pull his shoulder away.

"Jus' relax."

Jose could stand it no longer. Without thinking about what he was doing, he scooped scum off the soap tray and flung it into the man's eyes.

The
americano
screamed and wiped at his face, then drew back an open palm, cursing wildly.

A voice cut through the shower room, speaking in English. It was like a whip pop, and Jose looked over to see a strapping man about six nozzles down with his finger pointed their way. White suds cascaded over his naked black body His eyes were glaring.

Surprised, the flabby man dropped his hand. Finally, he turned the shower off and waddled back down the bench line. The black man spoke sharply as he passed, his finger forking out like an ebony arrow.

Heart drumming, now understanding what Eddie meant about the "soccer ball," Jose finished his shower without looking toward the far end of the room. As he was drying off, the black man came up, mopping himself with a towel. He said, "Watch that one, kid. He's nothin' but evil." Jose did not fully understand, but recognized the word
evil,
for the black man added, "
Malo. Muy malo.
"

Jose said, "
Muchas gracias, señor.
" He dressed quickly and got Sanchez. As he began walking down the dirt lane between the cabins, he met Giron, who was headed for the bath with his cake of soap and towel. He started to tell the teacher but decided not to. There might be more trouble. He might be kicked off the farm and that would mean Maldonado couldn't work.

Giron grinned. "Makes you feel good, huh?"

"Yes,
señor,
" Jose replied and went on to No. 6.

During the evening meal, Jose noticed that the
americano
was glancing at him now and then, but he kept his eyes on his plate, or on other things.

In the twilight, he took Sanchez for a long run in the newly plowed field east of Haines Main, hoping that his father would soon arrive. Maldonado could snap the flabby man like a bean.

Back in the cabin, while Giron wrote in his notebook, Jose took the stub of pencil from his suitcase and on the back of a small box he'd retrieved from behind the kitchen began sketching the field workers picking tomatoes. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding the box on his knees.

Soon, Giron looked over. Then he got up and stood by Jose. "I didn't know you could do this," he said. "That's marvelous."

"It is nothing. Without color, you cannot see the green of the fields or the red of the tomatoes."

"But you have the feeling. That's the way it looked today. Have you had art lessons?"

"No,
señor.
"

"It's remarkable. You have a lot of talent."

Feeling very pleased, Jose went back to work on it.

In bed, Giron said, "I'm surprised your father didn't try to call here tonight."

"He knows that I am okay."

"How does he know that?"

Jose was silent for a moment, then said, "My father was a man when he was a boy, and I guess he thinks I am that way, too."

"Are you?"

"No."

"You seem to do all right."

Then Jose told Giron something he'd never told anyone else. "I love my father, but I don't like him. Do you understand?"

"Hmh."

"Do you understand?"

"I suppose so. I've just never heard it put that way."

Jose talked about Maldonado for a while, and then Giron talked about his father. Jose learned that Giron was from a big family and that they lived in the barrio in East Los Angeles. Giron's father was a tile setter, and one of Girons brothers and one of his sisters had gone to college, too.

Jose fell asleep thinking enviously about the large Giron family, and wondering where his father was; what he was doing.

T
HERE WAS NO ONE
else of Jose's age in the labor camp, but he'd noticed that there were some young people in several houses about a half kilometer away. Giron had said that these were foremen homes. They were roomy and neat. New cars or trucks were usually parked around them.

At one house Jose had spotted a red-haired boy who looked about thirteen. There was also a pale, blond girl who might be eleven or twelve at the same house. Although they probably did not speak Spanish, he thought he might talk to them the way he'd talked to some of the
turistas
at Colnett. Pointing, saying a word or two in English.

He discussed it with Giron. The teacher said, "Why not? You should make friends here. But I wouldn't tell them about crawling under that fence."

Jose laughed. "I wouldn't know how to tell them in English."

The next night, Friday, he decided how he'd do it. He couldn't just walk up and say, "We
amigo,
eh?" It was better to do something like his father and Enrique did at Colnett.

On Saturday morning he began collecting horseflies, selecting the big ones that zoomed around the fields, drawn by the fertilized earth. He placed them in a plastic vial he'd found the previous year on the beach below Melings. Tiny air holes were punched into the top.

Giron came by just as he grabbed one. "What in the world are you doing?"

"Catching flies, of course." Jose laughed, shoving a fly into the vial.

"Oh? Well, that's a hobby I've never heard of." Shaking his head, Giron rested his full lug of Bright-Packs. "What do you do with them?"

"I'll show you some time," Jose replied, pleased with himself.

They knocked off at noon, as scheduled, and went back to Haines Main for lunch. After eating, Giron said he wanted to go into town. He needed the lice spray and a new toothbrush, and joked about getting some perfume for Sanchez. Jose asked if he could go along, and took a dollar of the Colnett money from the hiding place under his mattress. He did not think his father would mind, now that he was earning a wage.

In San Ramon, Giron made his purchases, and Jose bought a tube of quick-drying glue. When they returned to the labor camp, it was practically deserted. Some of the men were sleeping. Others were playing horseshoes or checkers beneath the pepper trees. Still others had gone into town to drink beer or wine in the Spanish cafe. It was a warm, lazy afternoon.

Giron began playing checkers with the man next door. From beneath the bunk Jose took a small balsa glider that he'd bought in Ensenada. He stuck the glue into his pocket, checked the flies to see if they were still strong, and headed for the foremen houses. Sanchez followed.

He spotted the boy out in the side yard, working on his bike. It was saddle-down, and the chain was off the sprocket. Jose hesitated a moment, then went into the open field beside the house. Stealing a glance, he saw that the boy was staring at him.

He inserted the wing into the glider, then the rudder and tail fins. He tested it with a shallow arc, and it glided smoothly back to the ground. Then he took the glue out and uncapped it, feeling the boy's eyes still on him.

He opened the vial, extracted a horsefly bigger than a bumblebee but not as fat, and put a spot of the fast-setting glue on its belly, pushing it down midway on the glider's wing. He blew on it.

By this time, he was almost certain the boy was walking toward him. He waited a moment, then released the glider. It rose in the air on angry wings.