Evangelina Takes Flight Page 5

  I sit up and lean my head against her chest.

  “Evangelina, you must go, you know that. René and I would join you if his mother was not so ill. Besides, I have to take care of Abuelito. I’ll make sure he eats well, and if it’s safe, we’ll take him to church. He’ll come back to the ranch every now and then and help René with the cattle. He’ll stay busy. Things will turn out all right. You’ll get along well in Texas. Before long, you’ll fit right in with the other girls your age. They’ll love you. Think of it as an adventure. Texas, the United States! Tall buildings, fancy cars, fancy clothes. You’ll have to send me a letter and tell me all about it.” She reaches out and touches my arm. “You best get going.”

  We walk down the hall hand in hand. Papá stands by the bedroom door. Mamá steps out and closes the door behind her. Her chin falls to her chest and tears stream down her face.

  “Adán,” she sputters. “Doctor Gonzales says Tomás . . . he says . . . Tomás . . . he’s lost too much weight, and he’s still weak. Doctor Gonzales says he can’t go with us. Please don’t make me leave him! I can’t . . .”

  Francisca drops my hand and runs to Mamá. “I will take care of him! When the war is over, Papá can come back for him . . . or maybe René’s mother will be better, and we’ll go to Texas. We could bring him to you! Please, Mamá, don’t cry.”

  Mamá looks up. “Heavenly Father, why are you punishing us?” she demands. “Have we not been faithful servants?” She turns to Francisca. “M’ija, I can’t leave him behind. He needs me.” She closes her eyes and sways back and forth like a dried-out stalk of corn in a fierce wind.

  Papá grabs Mamá by the waist to steady her. “María elena, none of us wanted this to happen, but we must do as the doctor says.”

  “He needs his mother!” she shouts.

  “Maríaelena, listen to me,” Papá continues. “You and the children will try to board the train in Los Pinos tonight, but there are no guarantees you’ll even get on. What would you do if Tomás got worse without a doctor nearby?” He grabs Mamá’s shoulders and kisses her on the forehead. “René will take Tomás, Francisca, Abuelito and his family to that abandoned house until he is sure the soldiers will not be passing through here or until they’ve come and gone. They’ll keep Tomás safe, where Francisca can care for him and Doctor Gonzales can visit. We’d be risking his life if we took him with us.” He searches Mamá’s face for some sign of acceptance.

  “How are we going to tell him?” she asks.

  “We’ll just have to tell him plain, but he can’t see us cry,” Papá cautions.

  They hold each other for another moment, and then disappear into the bedroom. Francisca and I stay in the hallway and stare at each other numbly.

  The front door opens, and Enrique pokes his head in.

  “Evangelina,” he shouts in his squeaky half-boy, halfman voice. “If your suitcase is not on the wagon, good luck finding a spot for it. Or are you not tall enough to see onto the wagon bed?”

  “I’ll be right there!”

  I ignore the short comment, turn and run into my bedroom, one last time to pray.

  Dear God,

  You are the one I turn to for help in moments of weakness and times of need. I ask you to be with Tomás now. Please drive out all sickness from his body. It is I who have sinned. Tomás is an innocent child who loves you with all his heart. If someone is to be punished, let it be me. May you be glorified through his life and mine. All this I pray in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.

  I throw my gray wool poncho over my head and clutch my doll Belinda. I promised myself I wouldn’t take her, because I’m too old for dolls now, but last night, hours after the house went quiet, I opened the seam in her cloth back, removed the stuffing and inserted Abuelito’s box. I pushed as much stuffing around the box as I could, sewed the seam back together and changed her into her christening outfit, the long white flowing gown and matching bonnet with the light blue ribbon. The gown should hide the stiffness and slightly odd shape of her once soft, perfectly formed body. I lift the two dresses I packed, lay Belinda down, cover her with the dresses, a shawl, close the suitcase, wrap a belt around it and cinch it tight.

  The family gathers outside. Red splotches cover Mamá’s face and neck.

  “Tomás is too sick to travel. Francisca will care for him here until he’s well enough to join us,” she explains. “Say your goodbyes and pray for his return to good health. Then we will be on our way.”

  Emilio, Enrique and Elsa head inside to see Tomás. Mamá and Papá hug Abuelito and say their goodbyes. I hug Abuelito tightly and rest my cheek on his chest.

  I shift to stand on the tips of my toes, and he bends down so I can whisper in his ear, “I will miss your smile, your stories, your silly jokes and everything else about you. Please say we will see each other again soon.”

  “M’ijita, come with me. There’s time for a walk with your abuelito. I’ll bring her right back,” he assures my father.

  I follow him out into the brush, past the orchard. We walk slowly, hand in hand, down the well-worn path surrounded by patches of bluebonnets. Abuelita’s grave lies just ahead under the largest tree on the ranch, a cypress. Papá said it’s hundreds of years old. There’s a simple, arched headstone with the inscription: “Adelfa García de León Beloved Wife, Mother and Grandmother.” Abuelito kneels, plucks a bluebonnet growing nearby and holds its thin, fragile stem in his thick, callused fingers.

  “Adelfa, my loving wife. Our granddaughter wants me to promise that we will see each other again. Now, you taught me to never make promises I may not be able to keep. As much as I want to, I cannot say if Evangelina and I will see each other again. But if the good Lord’s will is for me to see her again, then it will be so, and I will be eternally grateful. I bring our granddaughter here, because I want you to pray with me, to pray that she will grow into the remarkable woman we always knew she would be. It’s true she’s short, I mean not even tall enough to swat a fly halfway up the kitchen wall, but full of heart. She worries too much, and sometimes lets her fears hold her back from all that is possible. But with your help and God’s grace, she’ll build a life she can be proud of and do good for others. My dear Adelfa, I pray that she and the rest of our family will be safe and find happiness. I will be here again tomorrow, if I can. Truthfully, with all that’s going on, I may not make it every day, but you are in my heart, every moment of every day. As always, I find comfort in your presence.” He leans over and touches the gravestone. “In God’s name we pray.”

  “I won’t let you down, Abuelito.” I press my palm to Abuelita’s gravestone. “And, I’ll pray for your safety and good health.”

  “May God be with you, my child,” he says.

  I walk away and turn around to look at Abuelito one last time. He casts a shadow much taller than himself across the swaying grasses.

  I sob the whole way back to the house, gather my composure and walk into my parents’ room to say goodbye to Tomás.

  “Evangelina?” Tomás says weakly. “I want to go with you. Don’t leave me here!” he wails like a wounded dog.

  “This is not a goodbye, Tomás. It’s hasta luego. May God bless you and keep you safe.”

  PART II

  Chapter Ten

  Departure

  May 30, 1911

  Papá taps Felipe’s left hindquarters with his walking stick. “Yah!” he shouts. Félix and Felipe strain to make the wagon move. Papá runs up front to encourage them. They take a few short steps and stop. Papá walks backward and shouts again. “¡Ándale! ¡Vámonos!” It’s not a myth. Mules really are stubborn.

  The wagon hinges creak and groan like ancient Señora Chapa when she hobbles her way down the aisle at Sunday communion. Mamá, Elsa and I sit up front on the wooden bench seat on the folded blue and white quilt Abuelita gave Mamá and Papá on their wedding day. Domingo sits under the thick canvas cover, his legs drawn tightly up around him. Pots, candles, kindling wood, blanket
s, pillows, clothing, a rocking chair, two small tables, bed mats, barrels, food, plates, eating utensils and a spare wheel fill the wagon. Two rifles and boxes of ammunition lay against the inside edge of the wagon bed.

  The mules get into a rhythm, their noses to the ground. Things jangle and bang loudly against each other.

  Papá stays up front. Enrique and Emilio lag behind with the goats. Emilio holds the third rifle.

  The orange barn cat darts out onto the trail and trots behind us.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Enrique hollers. “Look! That dumb cat thinks it’s coming with us!”

  I found her six months ago and named her Rosalía. She showed up at the rancho from time to time but never stayed for long. She was all skin and bones at first, but now her middle is so big it nearly brushes the ground. I thought it was the fresh cream, straight from the cow to her dish, but it’s obvious now she’s pregnant. Tomás planned to name all the kittens Poncho.

  We pick up speed. Rosalía quickens her pace for a moment, then slows down, turns and trots back toward the ranch until she’s out of sight.

  She’s going home. Our home. My home. My home!

  “Don’t go!” I scream in my head. That cat is the last bit of home I’ll see in a long time.

  Tomás loves her, though. At least he’ll get to see the kittens when he gets better.

  But, Francisca doesn’t know about the cat. I should have said something to Francisca before I left! Now it’s too late!

  “Can we turn back? Please?” I plead. “I didn’t tell Francisca about the kittens. Tomás wanted to see the kittens!”

  Mamá rubs my shoulders. “No, m’ija, we need to keep going. It took an hour to say our goodbyes, and we’ve got to get to the train station before dark. I don’t think I can bear to go back then leave again, as much as I want to.”

  Elsa leans over and looks behind us. “I can’t see the ranch anymore,” she whispers. “Rodrigo and I danced back there two nights ago. Now, it’s gone, like it was only a dream.”

  She stares ahead in silence. Mamá rubs my back some more.

  For hours upon hours the wagon jerks and bumps over every rock and dip in the road until my backside aches. The farther we go, the emptier I feel. Even the land looks emptier. No trees, just sparse cactus, dry weeds, rocks and dirt. Shades of brown and gray in every direction. I haven’t seen any animals—not a squirrel or rabbit in sight. Too hot and dry, I suppose. There must be animals out here, hiding in the shade, waiting for the sun to set and the hot air to lift. I shudder at the thought of my father and brother sleeping in a tent. A piece of canvas won’t protect them against a bobcat or black bear.

  May 31, 1911

  The sun shines through the tall grimy windows of the Los Pinos Train Station where we’ll board the northbound train, cross the border at Paloma and arrive in Seneca, Texas. From the looks of it, it’s not much more than an open stretch of land and a train station with swaths of trees on each side of it.

  We arrived too late last night to get on a train. Mamá, Elsa, Domingo and I slept in tents on hard, bumpy ground outside the station with what must have been a hundred other people who did the same. Some looked like they’d been here for a while with simple lean-tos to cover them, clotheslines strung between trees, kerosene lamps, pots and pans strewn about and garbage everywhere.

  Despite my aching, tired body, the sound of bats calling to each other as they circled overhead kept me awake. Worrying about the secret cargo inside my suitcase kept me awake, too, even though I used it as the hardest, most uncomfortable pillow ever. I can’t feel too sorry for myself, though. Papá, Emilio and Enrique didn’t sleep at all, because they guarded the wagon, the burros and goats.

  I cried when it came time to say goodbye. Even Papá teared up. I’ve shed more tears in the past month than I have in the past thirteen years combined. You’d think my body would have dried out and shriveled up by now, like an old apple.

  “I miss Papá and Emilio already,” Elsa sighs.

  “Me, too,” I add. “We won’t see them for at least two weeks. Maybe we shouldn’t have packed so many things. How are Félix and Felipe going to make it all that way pulling that much weight? What if one of them breaks a leg or something? How will Papá and Emilio get to Seneca? Will the goats even make it that far? Whose foolish idea was it to bring them with us anyway?”

  I wipe the dirt from my hands on my skirt and chew the nail on my little finger.

  “Evangelina, don’t start. They’re going to make it to Seneca just fine. All I was saying is I’m going to miss them,” Elsa scolds.

  “How did you girls sleep?” Enrique bumps his shoulder against mine. “I stayed awake, outside in the open air and did just fine. Who needs a tent, besides you weakling girls?”

  “I do, but I’m just another weakling girl,” Mamá answers. She walks up hand in hand with Domingo. “Too many mosquitoes without it. You know all about those right, m’ijo?”

  “Yes, I do,” Enrique says through his teeth as he scratches his neck, then his arm, then his shoulder. “They got me everywhere! Even here!” He points to the seat of his pants.

  Domingo doubles over with laughter. “That’s the funniest thing I ever heard! Mosquito bites on your butt!”

  “You wouldn’t think it’s so funny if you had itchy bites down there, you little rat!”

  Enrique chases Domingo around the bench as he giggles and scrambles to hide behind Mamá’s skirt.

  “Serves you right for calling us girls weaklings, m’ijo,” Mamá scolds.

  We head inside the station and pass the time sitting along the wall farthest from the main entrance, eating two-day old pan de dulce, finishing the last of the grapefruit juice and playing Lotería. Mamá sits on the edge of a well-worn bench, a deck of cards in hand. Elsa, Enrique, Domingo and I sit at Mamá’s feet, a rectangular card about the size of two stalks of corn laying side by side on the grimy floor in front of us, each card with a unique combination of sixteen pictures—four across and four down. My card has an umbrella, a watermelon, a devil, a musician, a spider, a star, a bonnet, a shrimp, a hand, a cactus, a ladder, a barrel, a parrot, a fish, a mandolin and a man with the world on his shoulders.

  Mamá pulls a card out of the deck and announces, “It’s the cactus.”

  Domingo and I each grab a dry pinto bean from a small sack between us and place it on our cards.

  “¡Lotería!” Domingo yells.

  “Did you get four in a row?” Elsa leans over and examines his card. “You sure did. Congratulations, you won!”

  “I haven’t won even once yet,” Enrique protests. “The whole world is against me.”

  “Not me! I just won!” Domingo boasts.

  “How wonderful for you,” Enrique mocks.

  “Maybe you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.” I point at the picture on my card and try not to burst out laughing.

  “Very funny,” Enrique rolls his eyes.

  The steady hum of the crowd picks up as more people enter the station. A man behind the ticket window opens up the pulldown shades and turns the hanging sign from “At Lunch” to “Open.”

  Travelers stand together like kernels of corn on a cob. A young woman about Francisca’s age stands barefoot near the door. A checkered shawl drapes over her head and wraps around her body. A baby no more than a month old lays inside a fold in the fabric and cries as one little arm breaks free and flails around helplessly. The woman pays no attention. Three other small children cling to her skirt, all with dirty clothes and thin, listless and expressionless faces. Countless others look the same, weary and pale and so skinny their tattered clothes hang on them like scarecrows without straw.

  “Can we share some of our bread?” Elsa asks, her face taut and stressed. “Some of these people are so thin. That old woman over there is begging for food.”

  “That’s a very kind thought, Elsa. Here, take my bag.” Mamá hands her woven bag to Elsa. “There are four or five bolillos in ther
e. Why don’t you tear each of them in half first?”

  Elsa slings the bag over her shoulders so it hangs in front of her right hip. She tears the bread into pieces and within seconds a swarm of people leans in with outstretched hands.

  “Please, señorita, have mercy on me. I haven’t eaten in three days. Please.”

  “Señorita, my child is sick. If only she could eat a little of your bread.”

  “The hacienda owner fed us nothing but rice and water.”

  “Señorita, can you not see my baby is hungry? Please, I beg of you. God have mercy on you.”

  The rest of us cluster together, distressed at the sight. I’ve never gone hungry, but these poor souls . . . I can only imagine what they’ve been through.

  Elsa hands bread to as many people as she can, but there are so many empty hands! In less than a minute the bread is gone, and the people scatter like crows when an eagle circles in the sky above.

  “I’m sorry, it’s all gone,” Elsa apologizes to those who didn’t get any. “Mamá, there’s none left.”

  “I’m glad you shared what we had. Those people were much hungrier than we’ve ever been. We still have fruit and nuts, and a bag of dried meat,” Mamá assures her.

  “Enrique, come with me to the ticket window. They told your father we couldn’t get our tickets more than an hour before departure,” Mamá instructs. “It’s ten o’clock, so it should be fine now.” Mamá gestures toward the double-wide open doors. “Girls, take our things over there so they’re closer to the platform. I don’t want to fight the crowd when it’s time to board. Keep Domingo with you, and don’t let him out of your sight.”

  “How are we going to get it all over there?” Elsa huffs.

  “We’ll just have to manage,” I grumble. “Let’s take the suitcases, and I’ll come back for Enrique’s crate. Now come on.”

  I pick up my own light brown suitcase with the dark brown belt around it. My doll Belinda is wedged inside between clothing. I’m not leaving that bag behind. I stuff Domingo’s little suitcase under my arm and pick up Mamá’s suitcase with my free hand. Elsa grabs her own and takes Domingo’s hand. They trail behind me.