Evangelina Takes Flight Read online

  “But the next day, to everyone’s surprise, swarms of pocket-size swallows dove in, out and around the great river and snatched many of the butterflies for their meal. Some butterflies escaped. When the sun disappeared from view, the birds were gone, and the butterflies were no more.”

  “Ooohhh,” I lament. “That’s sad.”

  “It only seems sad, but you must hear the rest of the story.” Abuelito put his arm around my shoulder. “Soon thereafter, the people of the village renamed Agua Fuerte, Mariposa in honor of the beautiful, noble creatures they believed God sent especially to them from up above to bless their village and all who lived there.”

  “Were the butterflies too scared to come back?”

  “Naturally, they were scared of the birds, but they knew they could find a better place to live beyond what they could see, beyond what they’d ever seen in all their travels. And yes, they came through Mariposa the next year, and every year since then on their way to the warmer weather in the south,” Abuelito replies. “The birds come, too, but that doesn’t stop the butterflies. Fear doesn’t determine their fate.”

  “What is fate?” I ask.

  “Fate is the way your life is meant to turn out.”

  “Where does fate come from?”

  “Fate comes from inside you,” he says, touching my chest lightly with this fingertips. “Right here, in your heart.”

  “Really?” I look down at the spot where my heart is.

  “Really! No one else decides it. It’s what you choose, not something that happens by chance, like some people think. The butterflies know this, because they are wise creatures.”

  “Butterflies can’t be wise,” I giggle.

  “Oh, yes, they can! Each one breaks free of its cocoon, flaps its wings, rises into the sky, travels long distances and overcomes many challenges and dangers along the way. But, in the end, it reaches its destination. It works that way for people, too, m’ija. Many small steps become long distances, with determination and hard work. You just have to know where you want to wind up.”

  I squeeze Abuelito’s hand and lean into the warmth of his right side.

  “Over the years Mariposa grew,” he continues. “More and more families came to settle where the legendary butterflies first graced the great river, now called the Río Bravo.”

  “That’s our river!” I proclaim.

  “And just think . . . you were born here, on Rancho Encantado on the banks of the Río Bravo, right outside Mariposa. Evangelina Carmen de León was born July 1, 1897, and it was a very special day.”

  “You were born here, too,” I remind him.

  “Yes, of course,” he agrees, drawing me closer. “But when you were born, it was a sign of God’s goodness and grace, like the mariposas. God wants you to dream just as they did, then spread your wings, and go after your dream.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A Different World

  June 1, 1911

  The sun is up, but just barely. I must have slept a long time. My neck hurts like someone folded it between the pages of a book. I hate when that happens. You fall asleep in a sitting position, and wake up with your head flopped over and slobber dribbling down your chin. I close my eyes and rub my neck. Images from my dream drift in and dissolve: Abuelito and me on the porch, looking to the sky for the butterflies, his arm around me. He always said dreams can foretell your future. That might be true, but he also said if you watched a dog poop, you’d get a sty in your eye. I told him that was the craziest thing I ever heard, but I admit I always looked away when I saw a dog squat. Why chance it?

  Margarita looks out the window. With most of the window glass missing, there is nothing between us and the outside but a dirty wooden floor and a curved metal roof. The faint smell of orange blossoms wafts in. I hold my breath as long as I can. Our orchard back home is full of fruit right now, ripe for the picking.

  Margarita holds out an orange slice with her good hand. “Do you want a piece?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I reply.

  “I never told you the rest of the story,” she offers.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What happened to my parents and sister.”

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

  Part of me wants to spare her the pain of reliving whatever happened, but part of me wants her to finish the story. She comes from a different world that intrigues me and makes me uncomfortable at the same time. There were so many people suffering while I lived an easy life on the ranch, without much thought to the world outside Mariposa.

  “Señor Coronado owned Hacienda Estrella, all the land and the biggest house you’ve ever seen,” she begins. “Over a hundred people worked there. Most of us worked the fields, or tended the animals, but some of the older girls got to work in the house, cleaning, cooking, running errands and taking care of his eight-year-old twins. Such spoiled girls and mean, too. My sister worked in the house. My parents and I picked cotton, and did other work, too. If I didn’t fill at least two sacks as tall as I am, they’d whip me, just as they did the adults.”

  “How dreadful.” I shake my head in disgust.

  “My sister, Josefina, ran away, but they caught her.”

  “Why would she leave you and your parents?”

  “She got beat almost every day by Señor Coronado’s wife, who didn’t like her cooking. She also didn’t like how Josefina folded the clothes or polished the silver or braided the twins’ hair. Señora Coronado used any excuse she could to scream at Josefina and whip her until she cried. That woman was an old drunk and mean as the devil. So Josefina ran away, but she didn’t get very far. They dragged her back and whipped her so hard, she could barely move. Señora Coronado said Josefina would pay for trying to escape, but none of us imagined it would . . . turn out like it did.”

  I shift my position and let out the breath I’ve been holding.

  “It was hot that night,” she continues. “I asked Mamá if I could sleep by the door so I’d feel the breeze. That’s the only reason I survived.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw him with an empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. He poured it on the hay outside our place before he set it on fire.”

  “Señor Coronado?”

  She nods. “He was so drunk he could barely stand up.”

  She leans her head against me. Her tears soak my shoulder. I wriggle a bit to reach for the handkerchief in my pocket.

  “Here, use this.”

  Mamá looks at me with an uneasy smile. I hold up my hand signaling her to stay where she is.

  “People came running, shouting . . . the men brought buckets of water, but it was too late.” Her thin frame shakes as she cries. “The next thing I remember is waking up in someone else’s house, the house of an old woman who lived nearby. She took care of me for weeks, and then I just left. The old woman said Señor Coronado wanted me to get back to work, but I couldn’t stay anywhere near that murderer. What was there to stay for? I’d rather starve than live there.”

  “Evangelina,” Elsa calls from across the railcar. “Paloma is just ahead!”

  I get up and stick my head out the window. The wind rushes past, loosens the hairs from the edges of my ponytail and whips them around and blows them into my mouth. A long, flat brick building with several arched doorways alongside a train platform comes into view. A giant clock hangs in the middle of the station’s roof. It’s seven o’clock. People mill about: men in sombreros, women with baskets and little ones clutching their mothers’ hands. One little boy chases a dog down the platform away from the building. The whistle blows three times and a loud, lingering hiss comes from the engine up front as the train releases its last thrust of steam. The mist from the steam mixes with the warm air and rushes through the open windows.

  People grab their belongings and jostle about as they make their way to the doors at each end of the car.

  “Let’s stay here while the others get off. There’s no reason to rush. We
’ll be here for a while anyway,” Mamá announces.

  “Why are we stopping?” Domingo perks up. “Is this where Tía Cristina lives?”

  “No, this is Paloma, but it’s very close to Seneca, where your aunt lives. Paloma is still in Mexico and Seneca is in Texas.”

  “But I thought you said we were going to the United States.” Domingo scrunches his eyebrows.

  “Yes, Texas is a state in the United States.”

  “You said we’re going to Seneca!”

  “Ay, m’ijo,” she sighs. “It’s confusing, I know, but we have to stop here for a little while so some workers can check things on the train.”

  “What things?” Elsa asks.

  She’s been so quiet throughout all of this. When she gets nervous or scared or even excited, she stops talking. She thinks, then she talks. Sometimes I have to talk so I can think. Words come out of me like water from the spigot of our well. Enrique says words come out of my mouth like diarrhea. Yuck!

  “Okay, everyone come closer,” Mamá says. “Every train stops on the Mexican side before it crosses the international border, so that the Mexican inspectors can check the goods going out of the country. They’ll probably go into the railcars, where the freight is stored and check what’s in the crates and boxes. After this stop, we’ll board one more time and cross into Texas, right across the river from Paloma, where we will also stop for a short while.”

  “Will they check our things?” Enrique questions.

  “I don’t know why they would,” Mamá answers. “It would take too much time to search every passenger’s bag.”

  I’m relieved. I wonder if they’d arrest us if they found the box. Why did Abuelito have to give me that stupid box? I’m scared of something I can’t even name.

  “When we get to the station across the river, if the Americans ask, we’ll tell them we are going to visit your aunt in Seneca for a few weeks,” Mamá continues. “Let’s get off now. The next stop may be as quick as fifteen minutes from here, then about an hour into Seneca.”

  “Mamá, do you think Tía Cristina and Tío Mario will be upset when we get there?” I ask. “There are a lot of us.”

  Mamá pushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Your Papá and I knew this might happen, so I sent her the letter a week ago . . . although she probably hasn’t received it yet. If she doesn’t have enough room, we’ll figure something else out. Maybe the church can help or some other family will take us in. I was going to ask the church in town to help Margarita, too.” She looks around. “Where’s Margarita?”

  I scan the railcar. No sight of her. But my suitcase is there!

  “She must have had second thoughts about getting arrested for being a thief,” Enrique says. “She’s probably outside,” he adds, like he knows everything.

  We pick up the one item we each brought. It feels more than good to have my hands on my suitcase handle. Three steps down and we’re on the train station platform.

  “There she is! I see Margarita,” I say.

  Margarita stands at the street corner waiting for a horse and wagon to pass. I run to her before she crosses.

  “Where are you going? I thought you were going to Seneca.”

  “Look at this!” she holds out a piece of paper. “What does it say, Evangelina?”

  “Looking for girls to work as maids in the United States! Good pay! Ask for José Peña.”

  “A man told me they’re looking for girls who can clean and cook and handed me this piece of paper. He said, ‘José Peña is in that building over there.’” She points to a white brick building across the street. “Isn’t it wonderful? I only just got here and already I have a chance at a job.”

  “Are you sure? You don’t know any of these people, whoever this José is, or who you’d be working for. How do you know he won’t turn out to be another Señor Coronado?”

  “I can’t miss this opportunity, Evangelina. I need the work. I’ve got to try.” She grabs my shoulder and finally says, “I’m sorry about your suitcase. But I’m glad we got to talk. You were a very good listener. Thank you. I’ll always consider you a friend.”

  She hugs me as best she can with one arm.

  “Good luck, Margarita. I will pray for you. Make sure you get something to treat that arm!”

  We eat all the food we have left and wander around to pass the time, but there isn’t much to see. A man lets Elsa and me stroke his horse, a light brown dappled beauty with a golden mane. He calls her Olive and talks to her like a baby.

  “How’s my little beauty?” he says to her. “She’s a beauty, don’t you think, girls?”

  Before he leaves, he gives us a sack of apples. “She’s had her fill,” he says, nodding to Olive. “Don’t want her gaining too much weight. She’s got a bad back.”

  Enrique picks up a stick as long as his arm and hits a rock with it off into the thicket of trees. Then he hits another rock and another and another.

  “Did you see how far I hit that one?” he brags. “I bet it was thirty meters!”

  Domingo sleeps on a bench just inside the doorway. Mamá sits beside him and wakes him up.

  “Come on, m’ijo,” she cajoles. “Time to get up. One more train ride, and we’re there!”

  “I want to go home,” he complains while rubbing his eyes.

  Tired little boy, protest and all, we board the train again. Elsa pulls Domingo gently along. His feet drag as if his ankles have cannon balls attached. He lets out a big yawn. Whenever I yawned without covering my mouth, Abuelito would say, “You’re going to catch flies in there.”

  I hoist my suitcase up the step and into the train. It feels heavier every time I pick it up.

  The back of the railcar has a few open seats. It looks like two people can fit there. Mamá takes one spot, and Elsa takes the other with Domingo on her lap. Enrique and I stand. The train jolts and rolls forward.

  “This may be the last time we’re on Mexican land for a long time,” I announce.

  “You’re right, m’ija,” Mamá agrees. “This will be the first time any of us has traveled this far from home, much less left any of the fam . . .” She stops mid-sentence. Tears fill her tired eyes.

  “We must trust in the Lord, and He will serve us well,” Elsa says. “I pray for Tomás, Abuelito, Francisca and René every moment I get. And René’s family, too. I’m sure you all do the same. Tomás is probably already getting better. I can see him now climbing trees and throwing rocks and eating something with more food on his face than in his mouth. You know, his usual self.”

  “Look!” Enrique calls out. “We’re crossing the Río Bravo again. Halfway across this bridge and Mexico will be behind us.”

  “The Americans call it the Río Grande,” Mamá adds.

  Before long the steady thumping of the train wheels against the tracks slows down and stops for a quick check at Customs. “I don’t see any tall buildings, just the inspection station,” Enrique announces. “It’s smaller than our house. I thought it would be . . . different. Bigger maybe and with some of those fancy cars I’ve seen in pictures.”

  “M’ijo, this is a small town,” Mamá points out. “Maybe one day you’ll see the tall buildings, but in a big city like New York. It’s very impressive, or so I’m told.”

  I don’t want to see a big city. I want to go home. But first, we have to make it past the Customs inspectors. I bite my thumbnail. I’ve kept my promise to Abuelito. The box is inside my doll, now in the United States. Now what should I do with it?

  About half the people get off the train. The rest of us sit and wait.

  Ten minutes later the train is waved on. Thank you, Lord!

  The trip from the Customs station to Seneca is uneventful. I watch the surroundings as we roll past more small towns and huge tracts of land, some of it empty and lonely-looking. Eagles and hawks circle above fields of peach, pear, lemon and orange trees planted in rows at farm after farm. Cattle and sheep graze, windmills spin, carpets of wild daisies paint the gro
und yellow and white. It may not be quite as dry as Mexico, but still, much of it looks the same.

  I doze off again and wake up to the sound of squealing wheels and the train whistle. The train stops, we gather our things and step outside. A chill runs up my spine, despite the warm, balmy weather. Less than a week ago I was making tamales. Watching Elsa try on her dress. Listening to Mamá go over the guest list. Celebrating Elsa’s and Enrique’s birthdays. Teasing Abuelito behind the house. Now, we’re in the United States! Fear, excitement, nervousness and sadness fill every space inside my body. And relief, I suppose. I am relieved we’re here, but don’t want to be here. I bite my nails again, until the nailbed of my little finger bleeds. My hands are filthy. I don’t care what Mamá says.

  I trail behind my family as they walk away from the Seneca train station, which is more like a one-room house with a few benches outside covered by a long, angled wooden cover. If the size of the train station is any indication, this must be a tiny town.

  We plod along with only an address as our guide. We don’t know the town, so the address is meaningless. We make our way down a wide, tree-lined street. Elsa’s hair lays flat against her head, her dress is wrinkled and dusty. She’s normally such a neat, clean, proper person, but after everything we’ve been through, she’s past the point of caring. Enrique’s soggy shirt clings to his back. His suspenders hang down, one on each side of his hips. Mamá pulls Domingo behind her. The braid piled on top of Mamá’s head sits at a precarious angle, like it might slide off.

  “We need to ask someone about this address, 1918 Washington Street. I hope we’re close,” Mamá says wearily.

  “Look down there!” Elsa calls out. “It’s a store. Someone in there can give us directions.”

  “You’re right,” Mamá says. “Let’s straighten up a bit before we go in. We need to make a good impression. This will be our first encounter with Americans.”