She beamed.
14
MALDONADO WAS SITTING on the edge of the loading dock at Consolidated, straw hat cocked back; feet dangling. He still looked like he could flick a scorpion with his fingernail.
Jose was glad to see him, but he felt strange. A lot had happened. It was not like four months ago. He'd thought about it all the way down from San Ramon.
Maldonado spotted the truck and jumped down, moving toward it with that quick easy stride of his as Jose got out.
"Jose, Jose," he yelled, grinning widely.
"Papa."
The tall man hugged him and roughly pounded his back "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
"Let me look at you." Maldonado held him off. "You are fine."
Jose nodded.
Then Maldonado saw Sanchez and frowned. "Hey, what's he doing up here?"
"He has been protecting me," Jose answered quietly.
"Protecting you?" Maldonado laughed. "No wonder there was big trouble at that farm, whatever it was." Lebeon had not gone into detail.
"Why didn't you call me at the farm, Papa?"
Maldonado frowned again. "I knew you would be all right as long as you behaved yourself. You'll have to tell me what happened."
Jose nodded.
Father Lebeon had gotten out of the truck and came over. Jose introduced him.
Maldonado took off his hat, bowed respectfully and lowered his voice. "Thank you for bringing my son, Padre. But the dog is a surprise. We did not mean to burden you with him."
"No burden," said the priest.
"We'll have to find a home for him," Maldonado said, looking over at Sanchez, tied to a rope in the back of the pickup. He was on all fours, tail wagging.
Jose stared at his father's hard, bony face. Maldonado had not changed at all. Jose loved him but did not like him. "No, Papa," he said.
Maldonado was startled.
"I'm going back to Colnett. I will take Sanchez with me."
Maldonado glanced at the priest apologetically. "He is just homesick. He has missed me. His mother died early this year."
Lebeon remained silent.
"Yes, I am homesick, Papa."
Maldonado's frown deepened. "But we must start our new life. I'll find another job and a place for us."
Jose looked at him steadily. "You can stay here, Papa. We'll see each other whenever you come to visit. I'll live with Enrique while I build my own place near his. I'll work and save money for art school. Then I'll go to Ciudad de Méjico. It will take time, I know."
"Ciudad de Méjico!" Maldonado was stunned.
Lebeon spoke up. "Why don't we get a bite to eat. Now, I don't want to interfere, but there are some things to be talked over, I imagine, as long as you two are going to separate."
Maldonado stared vacantly at the priest and then looked back at Jose, shaking his head. "Yes, Padre," he murmured.
Jose watched him as he walked back toward the loading dock to get his bag. His feet were dragging as though they were in quicksand.
AN HOUR LATER the black pickup droned south along California No. 1, the coastal freeway, at a steady fifty miles an hour. Jose sat on the old mattress Lebeon had thrown into the truck bed, suitcases near his feet. Sanchez had his head pointed into the wind. His mouth was open, and the stiff breeze pocketed in his leathers and ruffled his neck fur.
Jose turned to look through the back window. There was a trace of a smile on the priest's stubbled face, softening it. His capuche was down, forming a rich brown fold over his shoulders.
Jose stared at his father's head until Maldonado finally turned. He smiled widely and nodded; then turned to the front. It appeared that he and Father Lebeon had begun to talk again. Both men laughed as Maldonado jerked a thumb backward toward Jose and Sanchez and said something.
Perhaps there was a chance for them to understand each other now, Jose thought.
He looked down at his suitcase and was tempted to open it up and examine the paint tubes again. But the wind might blow the mounted canvasses out. He could hardly wait to get to Colnett and attempt to mix colors. If the bulldozer hadn't gone to work, the first thing he'd paint would be the old adobe. Then maybe Enrique out by his shack. In time, Maldonado out in the fields with a hoe.
Jose settled deeper into the mattress, watching the sky more than what was passing on either side. A few white fluffy clouds were adrift in it. For a short while, a hawk flew along with them and then cut a streak back toward the high brown hills.
Like the hawk, he was headed home.
About the Author
THEODORE TAYLOR
Acclaimed author Theodore Taylor was born in North Carolina and began writing at the age of thirteen, covering high school sports for a local newspaper. Before turning to writing full time, he was, among other things, a prizefighter's manager, a merchant seaman, a movie publicist, and a documentary filmmaker. The author of many books for young people, he is known for fast-paced, exciting adventure novels, including the Edgar Allan Poe award winner The Weirdo; Air Raid—Pearl Harbor!; and the bestseller The Cay, which won eight major literary awards, among them the Lewis Carroll Shelf Award. Mr. Taylor lives near the ocean in Laguna Beach, California.
Theodore Taylor, The Maldonado Miracle
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