The Memories of Ana Calderón (8 page)

I returned to Nogales about fifteen years ago. I went to the Carney family house only to find that it had been torn down and that in its place a small county library had been built. I visited the cemetery that used to be on the outskirts of town and discovered that it was now surrounded by houses and factories. I spent a long time walking through the grounds, reading the headstones and plaques until I found the place where Jasmín was buried. The wooden marker placed by the Carney family was collapsing and the writing on it was no longer legible. Before leaving the city, I ordered a new marble headstone. I had it erected to mark the place where Jasmín, still a little girl, had lain for so many years.”

Reyes Soto was born and raised in East Los Angeles, where he had lived all his life. He had only gone as far as the eighth grade in school, but he was able to make a good living because he could do just about anything with his hands. He could paint a house, fix its plumbing, tape a couple of wires together so that a light bulb would go on, replace or repair broken auto parts, and weld pieces of metal together so efficiently that they would stay in place, never again to split apart.

Reyes' main business was scouring East Los Angeles junk yards to retrieve salvageable parts and sometimes entire engines. He repaired and overhauled those things, and when he had a truckload of water and gas pumps, engine blocks, axles, pistons and rods, he headed south of the border. The huge Sonora ranch spreads were his usual markets
because there he had built up a solid reputation for his goods. Whatever parts Reyes Soto sold, he stood by. The ranchers, whose tractors and irrigating equipment were in constant need of repair, knew that whatever they purchased from him worked.

On return trips, Reyes sometimes gave one or two riders a lift up north of the border. He didn't do this for money; the only thing he asked from passengers was to chip in for gas, and for what they bought to eat on the road. It was on one of these trips that Reyes came in contact with Rodolfo Calderón. It had happened indirectly through the words of a
campesino
who had told him of the family and of a sick child.

In the beginning, Reyes had hesitated because he realized that they were probably running away from the
patrón
of
Rancho la Concepción
. Reyes understood the situation, but the fact that it was only one man with his hands full of kids did something to Reyes. He wanted to help.

He agreed to ferry them north, but only as far as the Arizona side of Nogales. With Jasmín's death, however, he became personally involved with Rodolfo and the children, and Reyes began to have doubts about leaving them behind. He had been, after all, the one who had taken the risk of running up to the Carney house looking for help. It had been he who had translated for Rodolfo and who had contacted the priest who immediately went to work with the Carneys to scrape up money and clothing for the family.

Reyes began to think that if he left them in Nogales, the Calderón family would have no other alternative except to head east to the cotton fields of Texas, or toward Colorado to the beet harvesting. He concluded that if that happened, more than likely the rest of the children would die off one by one, just like Jasmín.

After the funeral, Rodolfo and Reyes stood in front of the Carney house. Reyes, his head hanging low and his hands plunged into his pockets, was distractedly tapping the tip of his boot against the front tire of his truck.

“Look, Señor Calderón. I never do this, and I wouldn't except for the kids. Why don't you come to Los Angeles with me? Things are real tough, but I know that you'll be able to make a living for them. There's a school where I know they can go.”

Reyes spoke with a lilting, up and down rhythm. The
Spanish he spoke was interlaced with English words, as well as with expressions that were a combination of English and Spanish. Some of it escaped Rodolfo, but most of it was clear to him. His face, which up to that moment had been cast in sadness, lit up for a moment.

“That city is on the coast, isn't it? I'm a fisherman, you know.”

Letting out a shrill, whistling sound between his tongue and teeth, Reyes said, “Look,
ese
, you got it all wrong. I'm talking of East Los Angeles and, believe me, there ain't no fishing there!” He emphasized the word
East
as if trying to engrave it on the other man's mind. However, when Reyes saw confusion and disappointment on Rodolfo's face, he continued speaking. “You have strong hands, Señor Calderón. I know you'd be good with a hammer, or a screwdriver, or with a pick and shovel, wouldn't you?” Reyes was very close to Rodolfo's face as he spoke. His eyes reflected his emotion; his fear that the other children would also die.

“Sí, Reyes.”

“Just call me Ray. All my friends do.”

Rodolfo's voice was soft as he answered, disregarding the nickname. “Reyes, let's go thank Mr. & Mrs. Carney.”

The whole group walked up to the front door. This time it was Rodolfo who knocked at the door. Again Mrs. Carney appeared and, smiling, asked everyone to come in. Her husband and son were standing in the middle of the parlor.

“Reyes, please tell this family how grateful I and my children are for all their kindness and for helping us. Without them and their friends, we would have been lost. Tell them, please, that one day we'll be in a position to thank them as we should. For right now…”

“Hey, Rudy, just a second! I can translate just so much at a time.” Reyes interrupted Rodolfo, using the nickname that would cause him much irritation later on. Reyes turned to the Carneys and paraphrased Rodolfo's sentiments. He added also that the family was coming with him all the way to Los Angeles and that they would begin the trip immediately.

This time Rodolfo broke in while Reyes spoke. “Tell them that I and my kids have one last favor to ask them. Would they please take flowers to Jasmín's grave on her birthday? It's the fifth of December.”

When they understood what had been asked of them, all
three Carneys nodded their head in affirmation.

Once in the truck, Reyes sat for a long time without speaking and without moving, as if listening to a voice. A few minutes passed before he said, “Rudy, we're going to do this right. I don't want the
Migra
to come sniffing around my porch later on. You got the kids' papers on you?”

“Papers? What kind of papers?”

“Anything! A birth certificate, or something like that to prove that they're yours.”

Pushing César onto the seat next to him, Rodolfo pulled out the sweat-soiled pouch from under his shirt, using both hands to draw open the thick cord that held it together. He withdrew a few pesos and the photograph that by now was crinkled and badly bent. Next he pulled out a folded wad of yellowed papers, and unfolding it, he handed it to Reyes.

“Let me see. Okay, Rudy! These look like baptism papers. That ought to take care of business.
¡Vámonos!
” Cranking on the motor, Reyes made a screeching U-turn and headed back toward the border.

It was a short drive to the front of a small office which had the words “U.S. Immigration” stenciled on the window in large, white letters. When the group filed into the office, it was empty except for a uniformed man seated behind a scratched wooden desk. The suddenness with which the group entered startled the man.

“Whoaa! What have we here?”

Reyes, somewhat nervous, approached the official and stated their wish to be legalized in the U.S. He explained that they were traveling with him to Los Angeles, where a job was waiting for the father. As he spoke, Reyes partially turned to Rodolfo, indicating with his hand that this was the person in question.

“Hmm. It's a bunch of them, you know. But, just a minute. To begin with, let me see some papers from you.”

When Reyes produced the small, crinkled card from his wallet, the man scrutinized it. “Born in the U.S.A., huh? Where?…Oh, never mind…it's all the same.” Nodding his head in the direction of the family, he said, “You sure you're going to stuff them all into your house? They can't be on the streets, you know.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, for openers, let's get a look at their papers.”

When Reyes gestured to Rodolfo for the papers, he handed them to the officer. The official spread them out in the order in which Rodolfo had given them to him. He placed the documents on the desk top one by one. He took time, carefully looking at each certificate. As he did this he called out the name inscribed on the paper, despite his difficulty with pronunciation. He paused to look at each girl as she responded, “
Aquí, señor.
” When he read out Jasmín's name, no one spoke up, and there was an uncomfortable silence. Wrinkling his brow, the official called out César's name as he looked directly at Octavio. But when everyone pointed instead at the little boy, the officer became confused.

He got to his feet, taking the few seconds he needed to collect his thoughts. He was a tall man, well over six feet, and when he stood at his full height, Reyes and Rodolfo looked up at him in unconcealed amazement. The children, openmouthed and head bent back as far as their necks would allow, looked at him as they would have a giant.

The man, placing his hands on his waist as he wrapped his fingers around his leather belt, stuck out his chin in their direction as he blurted out, “Just a minute, here! Let me get this straight. It sure looks like we got us a problem, you know.”

Everyone froze. The tall man continued speaking as his penetrating blue eyes looked straight at Reyes. “According to what I see in front of me, we've either got an extra boy and one missing girl, or…or…” The children, sensing that something very serious was about to happen, audibly sucked in their breath. “…or that kid's name,” he pointed a thick, long index finger at Octavio, “is Jasmín!”

Somehow, they all understood his meaning. They seemed relieved and the girls laughed at Octavio, who looked painfully embarrassed at being confused for a girl. Reyes snapped his head over to Rodolfo, half-whispering. “Do you have anything for the kid?”

“No. He's an orphan. No one knows where he came from, much less who his family is, or when or where he was born.”

“Hey! Cut out the jabbering and give me an explanation.”

Reyes responded immediately. “Look, officer, here's the story. First, the girl Jasmín died; just yesterday. We buried her a while ago. If you don't believe me, you can call Immaculate Heart Chur.…”

The inspector held up the palm of his hand, signaling Reyes to stop speaking. He pursed his lips together as he lowered his head in thought; his forehead was wrinkled. After a few moments, he spoke. His voice had mellowed. “No. It's not worth the phone call. I believe you.” Raising his head, his eyes scanned the children's faces; the man appeared to have softened. “I believe it. It's no wonder they're not all dead. I don't know how they do it.”

Then returning to his seat, he said, “We've still got the problem about this kid's identity. How do I know if he's not here against his will? I can't let him go through just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Ask Señor if he's got anything that will prove to me that the boy's been with the family from the beginning.”

He waited, this time patiently as Reyes whispered to Rodolfo who, as if suddenly struck by a completely new idea, remembered the picture that he was holding. In it was Octavio. Grabbing it from Rodolfo's fingers, Reyes turned to the inspector. “Look, he has a family picture that shows the kid right up there with them. This picture's not even two years old.”

He handed the officer the photograph. He peered at it, looking up and checking each child's face as his finger moved across the picture. He paused on one face and muttered, “This must be the mom. Dead, too, I'll bet.”

After rubbing his eyes and cheeks, the officer continued speaking, “Okay. You're all lucky we're still doing it this way. Soon crossing will get tough, you know. Anyway, the registration fee for each one of them will be six bits. Here, take these forms over to the other room. Fill them out. We need a picture of the father and each kid. That'll cost a nickel a piece. In the next room you'll find Artie Hess. He's the court photographer, you know.”

The man, finding this last remark funny, laughed out loud, heaving his mid-section in and out. The group filed out of the room, and it took several hours before they were handed a group visa. It was a large document. On it were printed words none of them could decipher; a large, spread-out eagle was stamped at its top, and each of their pictures was pasted to the bottom of the paper. César was taken in the same shot with his father. Pilar and Cruz were also paired off. On their own were Octavio, Zulma, Rosalva, Alejandra and Ana. Only
Ana's eyes burned with a strange brilliance that even the years that intervened between the time of that photo and when she became a grown woman would not diminish.