Evangelina Takes Flight Page 4

  The guests ravage the food within the first hour. Francisca and I re-fill the platters with tamales and biscochitos. Mamá scrambles to make another giant batch of rice. I pick up empty plates and work my way to the kitchen. I set them in the sink as the music starts. I run through the back door and over to the edge of the yard. The music grows louder as the mariachis stroll in one after the other in a single file line with their instruments: a guitarrón, two trumpets, two guitars, two violins and an accordion. The performers join in harmony to sing one of my favorite songs, “Adiós, Mamá Carlota.” Next, the band strikes up “Alejandra,” a Mexican waltz, and people gather round the dance floor. Papá extends his hand to Elsa, and they begin the traditional father-daughter dance. The song ends, Papá bows, and Elsa curtsies. He pulls up a chair, stands on it and speaks in a loud, clear voice.

  “May I have your attention, please? I would like to toast my daughter, Elsa. M’ija, your mother and I are very proud of the young woman you have become. You deserve all the happiness the good Lord can bestow upon you. Congratulations, m’ija! A toast, to Elsa!”

  The crowd lifts their glasses. “To Elsa!”

  “More music!” my father shouts.

  The band starts again with another waltz, “Sobre las Olas.” Rodrigo steps forward, nods to Papá and takes Elsa’s hand.

  “May I have this dance?” he asks and bows.

  “You may.” Elsa curtsies.

  My heart flips.

  They take their places in the middle of the dance floor. She places her left hand behind his back, and his right arm curves around hers. Her right hand extends out to hold his left hand, although their hands barely touch. They glide and twirl, never taking their eyes off each other. Several ladies cluck about what a lovely couple they make. I can barely breathe.

  The song ends and Rodrigo leads Elsa away from the dance floor to an old fig tree that’s nearby. He leans in, says something, and she puts her face next to his ear and says something back. They join hands!

  I eat a helping of tamales to pass the time. Then a second helping. Finally, Elsa ambles back to the fiesta.

  “What did you talk about? Did he tell you he loves you?” I ask.

  “He said he . . . cares about me. I mean, he has feelings for me.” She looks down and fingers the layers of her gown.

  “Come on! What kind of feelings does he have for you?”

  “Keep it down. Now, promise you won’t tell anyone.”

  “I promise!” Elsa’s found love!

  “Later tonight he’s going to ask Papá for permission to court me.”

  A commotion erupts along the side of the house. Horses whinny.

  “Who are you? What do you want here?” a man hollers.

  “Soldiers!” a boy yells.

  Two thin, bearded men in dirty soldiers’ coats make their way into the crowd. Sombreros shroud their faces.

  “Por favor, don’t be afraid,” the taller man announces. “I am Pedro Treviño and this is Martín, my son.” Both men remove their hats.

  A thunder of happy voices fills the air.

  “Thank God!”

  “Welcome, Pedro!”

  “How did you escape?”

  Señora Treviño and Rodrigo push their way through. She drops to her knees, bends over and holds her hands to her face.

  “I didn’t know if you were alive,” she sobs.

  Señor Treviño crouches down and helps her to her feet. He puts his hand to his wife’s cheek and wraps an arm around her. Martín grins and smacks Rodrigo on the shoulder.

  “I’m sure most of you know my oldest boy and I were kidnapped last month, but we escaped,” Señor Treviño begins. “We stopped at the church on the way into town to warn Father Roberto that Villa’s men may be looking for us. He said we’d find many of you here.”

  The crowd erupts in nervous conversation.

  “Listen to me!” he commands. “It was only a matter of time. Mariposa cannot escape the revolution. It is coming. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news. I am especially sorry if our return makes the situation worse. It’s up to you whether you stay or go, but regardless of your decision, you must take whatever means is necessary to protect yourselves. Do not delay.”

  Mothers call for their children. Fathers scatter to prepare their horses. Some hastily call out their goodbyes as they scurry away. Others leave without a word.

  Rodrigo runs over and grabs Elsa’s hand again. “I will see you soon. And I will speak with your father, but I have to go now. I’m sorry. Thank you for the dance. Don’t forget what I said. I meant every word.”

  He makes his way back to his parents and brother, looks over his shoulder and waves.

  Elsa watches him until he’s out of sight, then joins Enrique, Emilio and me standing in a huddle.

  “What will happen now?” Elsa whispers.

  “Let everyone clear out,” Emilio answers. “Then we’ll talk with Papá. He’ll know what to do. But I don’t think he’s going to tell us to sit around and wait for the soldiers to arrive.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Box

  May 28, 1911

  A little girl’s corn husk doll lies on the ground by the table stacked with unused plates and silverware. A cream-colored shawl drapes over the back of a chair. A sombrero and a lone shoe lay next to the dance floor.

  “Papá said to clean up later. He wants us inside now,” Enrique orders as he lumbers past me with a stack of dishes in his arms.

  Everyone files into the living room and finds a place on the sofa or the floor. Papá holds a sleeping Tomás over his shoulder. Abuelito leans on his cane next to him. Mamá sits in a chair nervously twisting a handkerchief. Papá walks a few paces, leans down and smoothly shifts Tomás to Mamá.

  “Hijos míos, I’m afraid Señor Treviño confirmed what I hoped would never happen. The whole country is at war.” Papá gently touches Mamá’s shoulder. “We don’t live on an hacienda with expensive things, and we work the land ourselves, but we may be targets because we own land. We must leave Mexico. There is no other way.”

  Leave and go where?

  “What does the revolution have to do with us?” Enrique asks. “We’re a simple farming town!”

  “They want supplies—food, ammunition, horses and cattle. They take whatever they need or want. They also want young men to serve as soldiers. Pedro and Martín were very lucky to escape. Most are not so lucky.”

  “Is leaving the country the only choice we have?” Emilio asks.

  “It’s the safest choice,” Papá responds. He runs his fingers through his dark curly hair. “We’ll go up north into the United States. Your tía Cristina and her husband Mario live in Texas. They have a little girl, Leticia. Your mother sent your aunt a letter a week ago saying we might be coming, although we didn’t think it would be this soon. We’ll only stay there until I can find work and a place of our own. When the war is over, we’ll come back to the ranch and start again.”

  “Your father and I will start packing tonight,” says Mamá. “We’ll leave Tuesday before sunrise.”

  “I’ll help Papá with the mules and prepare the wagon,” Emilio offers.

  “I’ll help you prepare food, pack up the kitchen and whatever else you need,” says Francisca.

  “What’s happening, Mamá?” Tomás asks sleepily.

  “Nothing, go back to sleep, m’ijo,” Mamá says as she shoots Papá a worried glance.

  I sit on my bed and draw my knees close to my chest. I grab my favorite doll, Belinda, close my eyes and rock back and forth. Elsa peeks in, her cheeks stained with tears.

  “This can’t be happening.” I shake my head. Elsa sits next to me on the bed, grabs my hand, and we sit quietly for a moment. “I don’t want to go.”

  “Me either,” she murmurs. “Rodrigo and I . . .”

  I stretch out across my bed and use my pillow to stifle the sound of my crying.

  “I’m going to clean up outside. I’ll drag Enrique out there with m
e. I’ll tell Mamá you’re not feeling well,” Elsa whispers and closes the door.

  I should be helping pack or cleaning up the mess, but I give up and give in to my tired eyes, tired body, tired mind and let myself drift into the blackness.

  La Llorona points at me. “Look after your brother,” she cackles. She comes toward me and whooshes through my body like the wind.

  May 29, 1911

  I stagger out of bed. Flutters fill my stomach like a swarm of moths beating my insides in search of light. My family gets up and moves around with very little talking among us. My parents let Tomás and Domingo sleep.

  “I’m sorry about how the quinceañera ended,” I say to Elsa in the hallway between the kitchen and our bedroom. “It was perfect, until the end.”

  “It was special, wasn’t it? And Rodrigo, well, I’m only sorry it lasted just one night.”

  “He’ll be here waiting for you when we come back.”

  “I hope so. There’s still a lot to do. We better keep moving.” She turns and wipes a tear away with the back of her hand.

  While the rest of us slept, Mamá and Francisca packed sacks of corn and beans, strips of salted dried meat, quilts, herbs, roots and teas for healing, family portraits, soap, pots, pans, knives, chairs, chests and two small tables. One wooden crate or suitcase per person for everything else. That means two changes of clothes, a coat, shoes and a few other small items for the boys and two or three more things like a favorite hat or extra pair of shoes for the girls.

  I set a small brown suitcase on my bed. Papá and Abuelito talk outside my open window.

  “I heard Villa’s men are closing in. The sooner we leave, the better. I will miss you, but it’ll be especially hard for the children. We’ll pray for your safety every night and day.”

  I race outside and throw my arms around Abuelito. “You’ll be killed if you stay here!”

  Papá and Abuelito look at each other, startled.

  “M’ija, I didn’t know you were listening,” says Papá. “Abuelito will stay with Francisca and René at an old house less than a day’s travel from here. It was René’s uncle’s place, and it’s well hidden on an abandoned property. He won’t let anything happen to Francisca or your grandfather.”

  “Francisca’s not coming either? Don’t say that! The soldiers are coming! You said it yourself!”

  “René’s mother is too ill to travel. Her heart is weak. Francisca must take care of her and René’s little brothers and sisters. The old house is on a hill where René’s uncle grew coffee beans many years ago. It’s been empty since René was a boy. It’s the perfect place to go unnoticed.”

  I kneel on the ground, wrap my arms around my sides and weep. My perfect, predictable life is slipping away.

  Abuelito nods at Papá. “Let me talk to her,” he says. “Lina, let me help you up.”

  He pulls me to my feet. I follow alongside him as he takes one hobbled step after another.

  “Evangelina, each night I pray to God and thank Him for His blessings. I ask Him to keep my family safe, and so far, He has answered my prayers. I have no reason to doubt Him now. He has a plan for all of us, and I accept whatever God’s plan is for me.”

  “God’s plan is for you to come with us!”

  He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Mariposa is the only home I’ve ever known. Your abuelita is buried on this ranch, and I will not leave her. I visit her grave and talk to her every day. Sometimes I take her a piece of fruit or a bunch of wildflowers, but I often tell her how proud I am of you, your brothers and sisters, and what fine people you all are. I find great comfort in that.”

  I hug him tightly, and my warm tears soak into his soft cotton shirt. He pats my back gently like Mamá does when she’s trying to get Domingo to go to sleep.

  “Your father is waiting for me, and René will be here soon. Your father insists on giving us instructions for the cattle, even though we know what to do. But, if it makes your papá feel better, then we’ll let him explain it to us. I’ll just have to pretend I’m listening.” He winks. “I must go or I’ll be late. Be brave, m’ija. You have great inner strength. You just have to reach deeper to find it.”

  “I don’t want to leave you,” I cry. “Please come with us.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, m’ija, but I can’t. Now, listen to me . . .” His voice drops to a whisper. “Before you leave tomorrow, I have something important to ask of you, and our conversation must be private. Let’s find a quiet place after dinner, eh?”

  The day’s activity winds down. Domingo trails behind as Mamá moves around the house and takes care of lastminute details.

  “Pick me up,” he implores. “I’m sleepy.”

  “I’ll take him, Mamá,” I say. “We’ll go for a walk.”

  “Oh, thank you, Evangelina.”

  Sections of hair hang free from Mamá’s normally perfect braid, and the front of her apron shows signs of the past two day’s meals.

  She musters a half smile. “Don’t stay out long. It’s past his bedtime, and I’d like you to get to bed soon, too. Tomorrow will be a long day for all of us.”

  I hoist Domingo up, open the screen door and step out into the thick, sweet smelling air. The grapefruit trees would have been harvested next week. Mamá told Francisca to let the church congregation know they can take whatever they want. It would be a shame for it to go to waste.

  I pat Félix and Felipe outside the stable and step inside. Álvaro, my favorite horse, stands in his stall. His dark coat shines even in the dim light. I use my free hand to rub the soft spot of his muzzle. Domingo reaches out, and I angle my body slightly so he can touch him, too.

  “Be careful. Touch him here.” I direct his hand to Álvaro’s thick muscled neck. “If you put your hand too close to his mouth, he may think it’s something to eat!”

  I lean in and whisper, “I’m sorry, Álvaro. You can’t go with us. Papá says you’re too old to make the trip, but I don’t believe that for one moment.” I scratch behind his ears. “René and Francisca will take good care of you. I’d take you if I could.” The tears start again.

  Domingo’s head droops, and his warm breath spreads over my shoulder. I carefully lower myself onto a bale of hay in the corner of the stable to rest my arms and back. If I had something comfortable to lean on, I could surely fall asleep, but after a few minutes, I summon my last bit of energy, stand up and reposition Domingo in my arms. Abuelito enters the stable with the light of the moon behind him.

  “Abuelito, you startled me!”

  “Evangelina, now is our only chance to talk in private, so listen very carefully.” His voice is so low I can barely hear it. “I have something to give you. You must take it to Texas, but you cannot tell anyone, not even your parents.”

  “Forgive me, Abuelito, I don’t understand.”

  He looks around the barn and peers outside the doorway. “Many years ago I did something.” He pauses. “I found something when I was a young man. I’ve had it hidden for a long time. I’ll never be able to use it here. I’m too old now. Your family will need it. You must hide it where no one can find it. Do you understand?”

  I nod my head, but I don’t understand at all.

  He walks to the back of Álvaro’s stall, kneels, sweeps the hay away with his hand and yanks on a loose floorboard. He lifts out a reddish-brown colored wooden box that looks eerily like a miniature casket tied in both directions with thick string. It’s no more than ten centimeters deep, about as long as my forearm and as wide as my hand from my little finger to my thumb with my fingers spread out.

  Abuelito pushes himself up. The usual twinkle in his eye is gone, replaced with a grim face I hardly recognize. “Do not open this, Evangelina.” He nods toward the box. “Once your family gets settled, I will instruct your father what to do.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “It’s better for you not to know. If the wrong people find out about it, it can mean danger for you all. We have a special bond, y
ou and me, and that is why I’ve asked you to do this important task.”

  With his one free arm he kisses his fingers and softly presses them to my cheek. “I’ll take your brother in the house.”

  He sets the box on the bale of hay I was just sitting on, lifts Domingo off my shoulder and gently sets him down. “Come on, m’ijo, it’s time to get in bed. I’ll walk with you.”

  “Hmmm? Where is Lina?” Domingo asks.

  “I’ll come inside soon,” I assure him.

  My heart beats furiously inside my chest, and my mouth goes dry as the desert ground. What is in the box, and why is Abuelito asking me to take it if it’s so dangerous? I’m frightened, but I look around and lift the box carefully. It’s not too heavy. Everything inside me wants to open it, but I resist. A striped blue and gray wool blanket hangs over Álvaro’s stall and the next stall over. I grab it, fold it and set the box in between the layers.

  Chapter Nine

  Until Next Time

  May 30, 1911

  I lie on my side curled up tight.

  “Evangelina, you’ve got to get ready,” a voice says.

  I open my eyes and close them again. “Not yet . . .” I mumble.

  “Lina, wake up.” Francisca sits on the edge of my bed and gently shakes my shoulder.

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s three o’clock. Papá wants to get on the road early. You should be able to board the train in Los Pinos tonight, but Papá and Emilio have a long way to go after that.”

  “How long?”

  I don’t like the thought of splitting off from my father and brother, not one bit, but the train won’t be an option for them. They’ll have the mules, the wagon and all our things.

  “At least a week, if not longer. It depends on the conditions of the roads, and if there’s any . . .” She looks at me and through me at the same time. “Ummm . . . I’ve prepared a basket of bread and empanadas, and René squeezed grapefruit for an hour last night, so there’s enough to last a few days. We put it all in the chest on the back of the wagon.”