Under the Same Sky (7 page)

I scrambled to my feet, but the damage was done. There had been plenty of time for Dad to get a good look at me lying sprawled on the ground while the rest of the crew was picking away. When Dad got out of his truck and stood by the cab with his arms folded over his chest, I knew he was waiting to talk to me.

I was sure everyone was watching out of the corners of their eyes as I walked stiffly over to Dad. He reached into the truck and held something out to me. It was a quart of strawberries. Pale, unripe, dirty, packed in with bits of straw and leaves. I was surprised—and embarrassed—at how awful it looked.

I was dead.

“Is this your work?” he asked quietly. Somehow, when Dad got quiet, it was worse than if he yelled.

I shrugged, staring at the ground, too ashamed to speak.

“Look at me,” he said impatiently.

I forced myself to meet his angry blue eyes.

“Is this your work?” he repeated.

“I guess so.”

“You
guess
so?” He paused, and when I didn't respond he said, “Well, I
know
so. And you know how I know? Because none of these other people”—his free arm shot out to encompass the crew—“would dream of picking a quart of berries that looked like this.”

I didn't say anything. What was there to say? I had really messed up this time.

“Well?”

I shrugged again. Wrong move. Dad was looking seriously mad now.

“Didn't anyone show you how to do the job right?” Dad asked, and you could tell he already knew the answer.

“Gilberto showed me,” I said quietly.

Dad sighed. “Help me out here, Joe. I'm trying to understand why you would deliberately do a shoddy job.”

Oh, man. At that moment I wished a big bird would swoop down and carry me away, even if it was a flesh-eating bird with hungry babies waiting. How could I explain to Dad, who always did everything perfectly, what it felt like to be the slowest and the worst, no matter how hard I tried? How could I explain to Dad, who always had himself under perfect control, that I did it because I got sick of Manuel always being better at everything than I was? Because I was jealous of the way Dad acted toward him, compared with the way he acted toward me. Because I got so mad I couldn't stop myself. How could I explain to Dad, who had worked hard almost every day of his life since he was a kid, that I hated picking strawberries and that I was so tired and sore and miserable I felt like sleeping for a month?

“Is it the money, Joe?” he asked. “Is that why you did this?”

“No,” I said finally. “Not really.” I had to pull myself together and think of some way to explain. “I mean, I see now what you meant about how I'd probably—well, definitely—make more by sticking with my hourly pay.”

It suddenly struck me that Dad had been more than fair—generous, even—to give me a choice. The thought made me feel even worse.

“And I was pretty slow, you know?”

Dad nodded.

“I was working alongside Manuel, and…” My voice drifted off.

Dad finished for me. “And you were trying to keep up with him.”

“Yeah.”

“Joe, Manuel has years of experience working in berries.”

“I know,” I said miserably.

“So no one expects you to be as good as he is the first day.”

“I know.”
Especially you
.

“The most important thing is doing a good job, Joe. Cutting corners doesn't work. It always catches up with you. Someone has to sort through all those quarts you picked.”

Before Dad could say it, I did. “I'll do it.”

“Come on, get in,” Dad said, climbing into the driver's seat of the truck. “The produce manager at Tip-Top is expecting those berries before five o'clock. You ought to be able to finish in time.”

The ride back to the barn was a quiet one. It wasn't the easy, comfortable kind of quiet, either. Dad's silences always made me feel squirmy and fidgety. I couldn't help wondering what he was thinking about, and this time I was pretty sure I knew: he was thinking about me, and what a disappointing screwup I was.

I spent the rest of the afternoon re-sorting the berries I'd picked so Dad could run them into the local grocery store in time for people to buy them for their Saturday night desserts and Sunday breakfasts. When I'd finished and counted up the total, I discovered that my haul for the entire day had been reduced to a measly eleven eight-quart baskets, which meant I had busted my butt for a crummy $19.80.

I was disgusted, not with the money—or lack of it—but with myself. I'd acted like a big, fat fool in front of everybody, and I'd managed to accomplish the exact opposite of what I'd hoped for. I hadn't beaten Manuel, or impressed Dad, or proven anything except that I could act like a real jerk sometimes. I congratulated myself on my brilliant performance.

“Joe,” Dad called to me as he started up the truck to leave for the store, “the berries in the west field are coming in fast. The crew is going to work tomorrow. It's up to you if you want to join them. After church, of course,” he added as he pulled away.

Did I want to go back and face the crew and squat in the dirt picking strawberries on the one day of the week I planned to spend doing absolutely nothing?

No way.

Was I going to do it?

You bet I was.

I rode my bike out to join the crew around eleven o'clock the next morning, as soon as I'd changed out of my church clothes. On one of the narrow lanes I passed Manuel, who was driving the first truckload of berries in from the field. He gave me a wave and a nod. I couldn't read his expression, and I was glad to be able to start work without facing him directly. I planned to pick perfect quarts, no matter how long it took, and let that do the talking for me.

To my surprise, the rest of the crew hailed me as if nothing had happened the day before. They had to have noticed. I wondered if they were being kind by trying not to embarrass me, or if they were simply being careful because I was the boss's son. I wanted to think they were cutting me a break because they liked me, but it was impossible to know for sure.

Gilberto gave me a gold-rimmed smile. “Morning, Little Boss.”

“Hot today, Joe.” David fanned himself with his one hand.

“How about those Yankees last night, Joe?” asked Frank.

“They're looking good,” I said. I felt my spirits lifting a little.

“Hi, Joe,” said Luisa. “How are you today?”

I decided to try answering in Spanish. “
Muy bien, gracias
.” I stopped, a foolish grin on my face, racking my brain for another phrase from my third-grade Spanish. Nothing came, so I pointed to her. “You?”

“Okay.” She had smiled at my Spanish, but now a shadow passed over her face. Before I could ask anything, though, she smiled again and said, “Joe, when you're working
la fresa
,”—this, I knew, meant strawberries—“it is better not to look down the row. Keep your eyes on the ground. Understand?”

I nodded, not really sure I did know, but grateful for the advice, and for the kindness in her voice. “Thanks,” I said.

We began picking. I kept my eyes strictly on the plant in front of me, resisting the temptation to look down the long row ahead. Luisa was right. By doing that, I was able to focus on the job at hand, and not feel overwhelmed and discouraged by all the berries still waiting ahead of me. I moved along slowly, ignoring the faster pace of the others, minding my own business.

When Gilberto announced that it was noon, I couldn't believe my ears. The time had actually passed pretty quickly. For once, I hadn't been painfully aware of every horrible second of every miserable minute.

It was noon, but Manuel was gone with the truck, and I wondered how the crew was going to get back for lunch. Then I saw that Luisa and the others were heading toward the shade of some trees in the corner of the field, and she called for me to join them.

“Manuel is driving the berries someplace,” she explained. “He knew he wouldn't be back, so we brought our food. You share with us?”

When I hesitated, she looked away and said hastily, “You probably want to ride your bike back home.”

“No!” I said. “I don't. It's just that”—I held up my empty hands—“I don't have anything to contribute.”

She smiled. “Don't worry. There's plenty.”

Jorge had spread out a couple blankets and motioned for me to sit, so I did. He began unpacking coolers and passing around food, already munching as he worked. The tortillas I recognized. Then there were containers of beans, or, as Luisa said when she passed them,
frijoles
. I watched everybody else and did what they did, taking some beans, some chunks of meat, and some peppers, and folding them inside the tortillas.

The peppers were pretty hot, but once I got used to them, they tasted great. We washed everything down with paper cups of red Kool-Aid, which struck me as kind of funny. There we were sitting in a field of real strawberries, drinking strawberry-flavored sugar water. But, just like the food, it sure hit the spot.

The conversation was kind of slow as everyone tried, apparently for my sake, to speak English.

“Sorry,
no hablo español
,” I apologized.

“No, no,” Jorge protested. “Good for us. Good
…¿cómo se dice?…
practice!”

“For when the lady comes for English lessons,” Gilberto explained.

“English lessons?” I said. “What lady?”

“Ginny. She comes on the Monday, Tuesday, Thursday. Teach English for us,” David answered.

“You guys are all taking lessons?” I asked with surprise.

Everyone nodded, except Rafael, who shook his head. Pointing to himself, he said, “
Viejo
.” Then he laughed and added, “
Perro viejo
.”

The others laughed. After a minute, I did, too. I remembered
perro
meant “dog.” I guess Rafael was calling himself an old dog, too old to learn new tricks. I figured that between being a lazy mule and an old dog, Rafael wasn't going to be studying English any time soon.

I was surprised that Luisa and Gilberto, whose English was pretty good, were taking lessons, too. They looked proud and happy about it. I struggled to understand. They worked all day in the fields and then took what sounded like summer school classes in the evenings? Were they crazy?

“It's good to know the English,” said Frank. “Get to be better job. Bigger, more important, more money.”

“Frank going be Big Boss someday,” added Carlos, and everybody had another good laugh at that.

But Luisa turned to me and said seriously, “Most of these men never go to school, have to work. Me, I have to leave school, go to work. But I don't want to work like this all my life. In one school I go to in Texas, I learn about computers. I like that. In Yo Puedo I had drama class. We learn to say how we feel about things. I like it very much also.”

“What's Yo Puedo?” I asked, trying hard to keep up.

“Yo Puedo. It means ‘I Can.' It's a club we had at the school in Texas. For migrant kids. So we learn we can do many things, not just pick the fruit and plant the cabbage.”

Then she looked embarrassed and said quickly, “We like to work for your father, Joe. He is good boss, not like some others. But is better, I think, to learn about other jobs.”

I wanted to ask a lot more questions, but something she said really caught my attention. Dad was a good boss? Curious, I asked, “What are the other bosses like? The bad ones?”

She said something in rapid Spanish, and the guys snorted with laughter, rolled their eyes, and muttered comments I couldn't catch. But I didn't need to understand every word to see there was a world of stories in their expressions.

Luisa turned back to me. “Your father, he is a good man. He treats us fair, pays us fair, pays what he says he will pay. The houses here are nice. Clean, with inside bathrooms, not like some that have dirt and bugs, no furniture.” She wrinkled her nose with distaste. “Your father acts to us with respect. Your mother, too. LuAnn, she brings
el café, los pasteles
. Meg, she comes, practices English with us. Is nice. Many people not like this. They look at us like, What are you doing here? You are nothing. But they don't know we save our money to help our family.”

I nodded. It was the longest speech I'd ever heard Luisa make. I could see the emotion in her dark eyes as she spoke, and I felt vaguely ashamed. I hadn't had any idea before then about the other bosses, the bad ones. It made me mad to think of Luisa living in some dumpy place and being cheated and treated as if she were nothing. And I felt madder than ever about some of Randy's stupid comments and about the creeps who had come onto our farm on Friday night.

As we were putting away the lunch stuff, I overheard Gilberto saying something to David. I didn't understand it all, but I caught the word
periódico
.

I repeated it to Luisa. “
Periódico
. Isn't that the word for newspaper?” I felt quite proud of myself when she nodded.

But then that shadow passed over her face again and she said, “The last days, the
periódico
brings nothing but bad news.”

“What bad news?” I asked. I hadn't been paying attention to world events lately, that was for sure. But I hadn't heard about anything big happening.

“Many people from my country died coming here,” she said sadly. “These people, they came by the desert. The river crossing is dangerous, and other people have died coming over the mountains. So they thought the desert would be safe. But it was not safe.”

“What happened to them?” I asked.

“The coyote—the man who promise to show them the way—he left them. They had no food, no water, very hot. He said he would come back, but he never did. Some lived, but many died.” She was quiet for a moment, then added, “It is a terrible way to die.”

I was almost afraid to ask. “Did you know them?”

“No,” she said softly. “But I know others who died coming here. What Gilberto was saying before is that now Hector and his friends are afraid to come.”

“Who's Hector?” I asked.

“Manuel promised your father to have more workers for the apples. Hector is one of them. He will bring others. But now I hope they do not even try to come.”

I asked, “How did
you
come?”

She looked away. “Manuel, Gilberto, Carlos, Jorge, Antonio, and David, they came in the car. At the border crossing.”

“But how about you and Rafael and Frank?”

Luisa frowned and hesitated, looking nervous. “We have papers,” she said in a low voice.

Which didn't answer my question. I thought for a minute, not wanting to appear even more ignorant than I was. “You mean working papers?” I said.

She nodded.

“Well, yeah,” I said. “You can't work without 'em, right?”

She nodded again.

“But what I was asking was,” I persisted, “how did you guys”—I pointed toward Rafael and Frank, who were having a final drink of Kool-Aid—“get here? Plane?”

Luisa looked at me with disbelief. Then her face went closed and blank. “I think it is time to go back to work,” she said flatly, and she turned and walked away.

I stood there feeling really confused. Up until that moment, I'd felt that Luisa and I were growing closer, becoming friends. But for the rest of the afternoon, she ignored me. Even though she was picking less than fifty feet away from me, I felt a world apart from her.

I kept thinking how different her life had been from mine, or from LuAnn's and Meg's. I thought about what it would be like to want to go to school, but not be able to because my family needed the money I could make by working. And how I'd feel, knowing that if I didn't go to school, I might have to spend the rest of my life picking strawberries.

And that I'd be lucky to pick for a good boss. Like my dad.

With all the thoughts going around in my head, the afternoon passed amazingly quickly.