Evangelina Takes Flight Read online

  Evangelina Takes Flight

  Diana J. Noble

  Evangelina Takes Flight is funded in part by grants from the City of Houston through the Houston Arts Alliance and the Texas Commission on the Arts. We are grateful for their support.

  Piñata Books are full of surprises!

  Arte Público Press

  University of Houston

  4902 Gulf Fwy, Bldg 19, Rm 100

  Houston, Texas 77204-2004

  Cover design by Victoria Castillo

  Photo by Stephanie Rengel

  Cataloging-in-Publication (CIP) Data for Evangelina Takes Flight is available.

  The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

  Copyright © 2017 by Diana J. Noble

  Printed in the United States of America

  May 2017–June 2017

  Cushing-Malloy, Inc., Ann Arbor, MI

  7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dedication

  To Russ, Taylor (x2), Adam and Sierra who fill me with inspiration, strength and purpose.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Part I

  Chapter One: The Coming Storm

  Chapter Two: What Will Happen, Will Happen

  Chapter Three: Predictable

  Chapter Four: Tomás

  Chapter Five: La Llorona

  Chapter Six: Tamales

  Chapter Seven: Quinceañera

  Chapter Eight: The Box

  Chapter Nine: Until Next Time

  Part II

  Chapter Ten: Departure

  Chapter Eleven: Thief

  Chapter Twelve: A Different World

  Chapter Thirteen: A Scruffy Bunch

  Chapter Fourteen: Relief

  Chapter Fifteen: Hopeless

  Chapter Sixteen: What You Make of It

  Chapter Seventeen: Proper Burial

  Chapter Eighteen: Doctor Taylor

  Chapter Nineteen: Ideal American

  Chapter Twenty: Hard to Believe

  Chapter Twenty-One: Selim

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Separate the Inferior

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Fraud

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Love Thy Neighbor

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The Enemy of Triumph

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Mariposa Wings

  Acknowledgements

  For someone who once thought, “I’m no good at creative writing,” and “I don’t have enough ideas to dream up an entire story worth reading,” it’s a wonder I ever got past myself enough to write this book. If it weren’t for a special group of family and friends, I wouldn’t have made it across the finish line.

  First and foremost I must thank my parents, Belinda and Arturo who’ve always been models of integrity, and instilled in me the love of family and pride in our rich cultural heritage. Dad, special thanks to you for the countless hours you invested as my idea generator, history buff, cheerleader, researcher and proof reader. Thanks also to friends Anne Frantilla, Helen Carlson, Sandy Barnes and Cindy Flegenheimer for their honest opinions, wise counsel and endless support. And finally, to my grandmothers, Adelfa Garcia Jacobs and Evangelina Escobar Zárate for being the loving, resilient role models and matriarchs who started it all.

  PART I

  Chapter One

  The Coming Storm

  May 19, 1911, Rancho Encantado (Enchanted Ranch) outside Mariposa, a small town in northern Mexico

  Papá thought I didn’t hear him talking to my brother, but I did, because I pressed my ear against the cracks in the barn wall, and now his hushed “Don’t-tell-anyone-about-this” voice thunders in my head.

  “We’re landowners, m’ijo. If they do come here, they’ll show us no mercy.”

  I grip the fencepost outside the chicken pen and command my legs to stop wobbling. He did say if.

  I make my way to the kitchen on the backside of the house, my front apron pocket bulging with warm eggs.

  Mamá stands behind the massive carved wood table dotted with woven baskets full of peppers, garlic, cilantro and limes. With nine of us to feed, she’s either behind that table, at the sink or in front of the stove most of the day.

  “I have to tell you something,” I announce as I unload the eggs into the rust-colored clay bowl.

  She puts down her knife and wipes her hands on the front of her apron. “Of course, m’ija, what is it?”

  “The soldiers are coming,” the words spill out. “What’s going to happen to us?” I open and clench my clammy palms.

  Mamá sighs and steps toward me with outstretched arms, her expression a familiar mix of love, pity and exasperation. “Where did you hear that, m’ija?” Her arms fold around me. The warmth of her body melts into mine.

  “Outside,” I whisper into her shoulder. “Papá was talking to Emilio. I was feeding the chickens.”

  She pushes me back and studies my face. “So you were listening to someone else’s conversation?”

  “I wasn’t trying to,” I respond as I gnaw on the nail of my little finger. “Well, maybe I was. But, that’s not important! Should we leave Mariposa?”

  “Evangelina . . .” Mamá shakes her head. “Your father will let us know if there’s any reason for worry. Right now we have a quinceañera to put on. In the next week, I’m going to need your help more than ever. All right? And, m’ija?” She purses her lips. “Stop it with the nails, such a dirty habit.” She guides my hand away from my mouth.

  “Yes, Mamá,” I say dutifully through clenched teeth. She didn’t give me any answers at all. “I’ll go see if Elsa is up,” I mutter and shuffle toward the bedroom I share with my sister.

  “Evangelina?” Mamá calls from down the hall.

  “Yes?”

  “Do not say anything to your brothers or sisters about this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just do as I say.”

  “Claro que sí.” I swallow, but the lump in my dry throat sits like a rock in still water.

  “Do I have your word?”

  I close the bedroom door as if I didn’t hear the question.

  Elsa, my almost-fifteen-year-old sister, primps in front of the mirror at the dressing table. She pulls a hairpin from her pocket and pushes it in the long black braid piled neatly on top of her head in a perfect bun.

  “Good morning, Evangelina! Did you get the eggs?” A perfect curl hangs in front of each ear.

  “Of course, I got up an hour ago, hauled water from the river, fed the chickens and got the eggs while you were snoring away.”

  She looks at me, aghast. “I don’t snore!”

  “How would you know if you’re asleep?”

  “Mamá is going to make bread pudding, for the quinceañera.” She ignores my question, turning back to the mirror. “We’re going to need a lot of eggs.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “That’s a Christmas dessert.”

  “I know, but it’s my favorite, and Enrique’s, too.”

  A quinceañera is more than a girl’s fifteenth birthday celebration; it’s an announcement to the world that she’s eligible for marriage. Elsa and Enrique turn fifteen on May twenty-eight. My own quinceañera is less than a year and a half away.

  “I’m worried,” I whisper. I plop down on the edge of our bed.

  Elsa turns in the chair to face me and folds her hands in her lap. “And?”

  “Mamá said not to tell anyone, but I just have to or I’ll burst.”

  She throws up her hands. “Don’t be so dramatic. Are you sure you should tell me?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  She bites her lip for a moment. “Oh, just tell me! I don’t want you to burs
t!”

  I lean forward. “I was outside this morning, early, while you were in here snoring.” I throw that in again just because. “I fed the chickens like I always do. A few pecked at the feed, but most of them ran around all nervous.”

  “Evangelina, how do you know if a chicken is nervous?” She folds a handkerchief and places it in her apron pocket.

  “They wouldn’t eat. They just ran around flapping and pecking at each other.”

  “They’re chickens. Does it matter?”

  “A storm is coming. They can sense it.”

  “Evangelina, is that what you wanted to tell me? The chickens seeing a storm in our future?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not just talking about rain and wind. Something bad is going to happen.” I lower my voice. “Papá talked to the sheriff in Castillo yesterday, and this morning he told Emilio something—a warning from the sheriff.” I take a deep breath. “The revolution is coming this way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you heard of Pancho Villa?”

  “Of course. Everyone’s heard of him. He takes from the rich and gives to the poor, like Robin Hood.”

  “No!” I shake my head. “Well, maybe.” I press the heel of my palm on the space between my eyebrows. “Maybe he was a hero, but now his troops are burning houses, stealing and . . . and worse.” Papá said what “worse” is, but I keep it to myself.

  Elsa grabs my hands and squeezes. “But the revolution’s at the other end of the country.”

  “The sheriff said a battle broke out in Los Palos last week. The town was practically destroyed.”

  “What should we do?” Her face turns as pale as a cotton blossom.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did Papá say after that?”

  “Nothing. He and Emilio walked away.” I stand up and look through the window. A see-through curtain of mist floats down and turns into a steady rain. Thunder rolls in the distance. A storm is definitely coming.

  “Do you think we’ll still have the quinceañera?”

  “Mamá said there’s a lot to do before then, so that must be a ‘yes.’ Let’s just do our chores and try to forget all about this. It was selfish of me to say anything to you,” I concede. I only told her to make myself feel better. “Please, please, don’t tell Mamá I said anything.”

  Chapter Two

  What Will Happen, Will Happen

  May 21, 1911

  Mamá serves papas con huevo, eggs scrambled with potatoes and flour tortillas for dinner. I rolled out the tortillas myself, but instead of round, they came out looking like South America, Australia and a square.

  “Square, triangle, circle . . . they all taste the same,” Abuelito, my grandfather, always says.

  My hollow stomach aches, but I only eat a few bites. Mamá and Elsa clear the dishes, and I wash and dry by myself. It’s just as well. I don’t feel like talking. The dishrag swishes back and forth through the warm water. Dishes clink and clatter. I dry the last plate and set it on top of the others in the cupboard. Why put dishes away when they’ll be pulled out at least two more times and put back again, only to start all over again the next morning?

  I asked Abuelito this question once.

  “M’ija, if you followed that logic you’d never wipe your own behind. Why wipe when you know it’s going to get caca all over it again?” More Abuelito wisdom that leaves no room for argument.

  I hang the dishtowel and washrag on the warm stove to dry out, walk to the living room and peer out the front window. Emilio and Enrique help Papá replace rotted boards on the barn. Elsa hangs the last of the wash on the clothesline strung between the twisted hundred-year-old avocado tree and the fig tree, loaded with figs, almost ready for harvest. Not that I haven’t already eaten some. Some every day, that is.

  Mamá reads the Bible to Tomás and Domingo on the back porch. She and Papá are excellent readers. Both had tutors growing up. Papá’s even lived here at the rancho. Our tutor, Profesor Zárate moved back to Mexico City to help Francisco I. Madero win the presidential election, only to have the dictator Porfirio Díaz throw Madero into prison.

  I step outside and breathe in deeply. This is the only place I’ve ever lived. I was born in my parents’ bedroom, and so was Papá and two generations before him. A girl from church saw a picture of the Eiffel Tower in a magazine. Now she wants to live in Paris, because Mariposa is “unsophisticated and dull.” What’s wrong with dull?

  I wander into the open field. Paris may have the Eiffel Tower, but it’s prettier here when the sun sits just above the horizon. Streaks of orange, red and purple paint the hazy sky. A bright yellow bird with a head as black as coal glides by and settles in a tree with buds that hang like fluffy yellow tassels. Creamy-colored sandstone bricks form the sturdy walls of our home. A wide, worn porch wraps around the house from front to back. Mamá and Papá sit there most evenings and talk until the mosquitoes force them inside. My sisters and I take turns sitting on the wooden-planked floor, cross-legged, while Mamá brushes our hair or braids it for church.

  Once or twice a week Abuelito sits in a chair, and we gather around his feet while he tells us about Gorgonio, a brave boy who encounters many improbable adventures. One time, Gorgonio wandered into the woods and stumbled across jewels buried by a Spanish king. Another time Gorgonio got lost in the mountains and gave up hope only to find a talking bear that showed him the way to safety. Every tale is a different adventure, and each one has a unique lesson, mostly having to do with obeying your parents’ rules. Abuelito lectures a lot, but at least he tries to make it interesting.

  The flowering citrus trees announce their presence each spring with the sweetest, most inviting fragrances. At harvest time we pick the fruit from dawn until dusk. We grow vegetables, too. Corn, tomatoes, squash, onions, beans. Mamá cooks with some, sells some and gives away even more.

  I make my way to the tomato plants and pick as many as will fit in my apron folded up into a make-shift sling. Clouds of dirt surround my feet as I come toward the house. Mamá shakes out a kitchen rug up ahead. What should I say to her? That I’m still worried, have been chewing my nails and told Elsa what I wasn’t supposed to tell?

  “I brought some tomatoes” is all I can think of.

  Mamá drops the rug into the basket at her feet and pulls me in tight. Her cinnamon-scented long brown hair brushes against my cheek.

  “You were awfully quiet at dinner tonight, and then you disappeared. Is everything all right?”

  “Of course. I just took a little walk. There were plenty of ripe tomatoes, and there’ll be more in a few days.”

  “Don’t tell me you just wanted to pick tomatoes,” she scolds. “Worrying will not change things. What will happen, will happen, and we’ll handle it together. It’s getting late, so you should go in. I’ll be out here for a little bit. Sleep tight, and don’t forget to say your prayers.”

  “Buenas noches, Mamá.” I blow her a kiss.

  Inside I help Elsa get Tomás and Domingo into their pajamas and tuck them in bed. Back in our bedroom I lie down, touch the gold cross I wear around my neck, say my prayers and pull the blanket over my body, head and all. My restless mind, stuck in that murky place between awake and asleep wanders as the daylight gives way to night.

  I dream that I’m coming back from the river with a bucket of water, when something in the distance catches my eye—a black-tailed hare scampers across the brush. I can see the terror in its yellow eyes as a large, magnificent hawk closes in and carries it away. It doesn’t stand a chance, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  Chapter Three

  Predictable

  May 22, 1911

  I love my home, my family, our church, even my chores. Most days I know what to do, when to do it and what comes next. Wake up, feed the animals, haul water from the river, mend clothes, wash and dry dishes, shuck and grind corn, make un-round tortillas, watch after my little brothers, tell them nighttime stories and go to bed.
It’s all so predictable, and that’s exactly what I like about it.

  It is nine o’clock, and the sun shines through the front windows. Pan de dulce bakes in the wood stove. Today’s batch is my favorite, marranitos, traditional molasses sweetbread cut in the shape of palm-size pigs. I load more wood into the stove and walk to the back porch, where I shuck corn piled high in a wooden crate then grind it for tomorrow’s tortillas.

  Here, everyone has a role. Francisca, the eldest at nineteen, married René a year and a half ago, a week before her eighteenth birthday. René worked in our orchard for years, still does.

  Seventeen-year-old Emilio works as a carpenter when he can get the work. He’s Papá’s biggest helper on the rancho—strong, always willing to help and knows exactly what and when things need to be done.

  Elsa does mostly inside chores like me, but takes care of Domingo and Tomás more than I do, although we both do that more since Francisca moved out. Elsa has a crush on a boy she met at church but won’t admit it. She’s so beautiful with her long glossy black hair and gold-flecked eyes. Boys stare at her, but she pretends not to notice. People say we look similar, but she’s the prettier one.

  Enrique wants to run the ranch when Papá is too old to do it anymore, which is hard to believe, because he avoids work like a cat avoids water. He picks on me every chance he gets. I’m the smallest girl at church for my age. When kids tease me, Enrique joins in! I’ve learned to ignore it, or try to ignore it. Okay, I admit. It’s hard to ignore.

  Last week, five-year-old Tomás jumped off a bed and flapped like a hawk. He hit his forehead on Mamá’s sewing box and still has the nasty bruise to show for it. Tomás and trouble go together like coffee and cream, and those things really do go together. Who wants to drink black coffee anyway? Blech!

  Four-year-old Domingo is sweet as a summer peach, but he makes my brain tired with all his questions.

  Today, Mamá and I cook catfish with lemon, tomato and garlic for lunch. After that, I read to Domingo and get him down for a nap, although I don’t think he’s going to take naps too much longer. He only pretends to sleep and gets up after half an hour.