The Maldonado Miracle

  Jose's suitcase was in the trunk of the car.

  "Any questions?"

  "No, señor." Jose turned and looked at Sanchez. The dog was asleep.

  The way was mostly downhill now, over Baja No. 3, past open land and small, dimly lit villages. It was farm country, and the only large town was Guadalupe. Once they passed it, Jose knew that Tecate wasn't too far ahead. A half-hour at most.

  After a long silence, he said suddenly, "Suppose the patrol finds me at the fence."

  Gutierrez laughed. "You put your hands up, and be very polite. Very meek."

  When the car stopped by the edge of Hidalgo Park, almost in the middle of Tecate, Jose whispered, "Sanchez, wake up." The dog rose to his feet.

  As they got out, Gutierrez warned, "Act very natural, Jose. I'll see you in about forty-five minutes."

  The door closed again, and Gutierrez muttered, "Good luck," and drove off up Lázaro Cardenas toward the border. Jose watched his taillights until they had vanished in the sparse traffic. It was about ten o'clock.

  Jose stood under a streetlight for a moment, studying the route Gutierrez had drawn on brown paper. Finally, he folded it and stuck it into his pocket. Then he said, "We'll go now, Sanchez. Stay very close to me, just as if we were going to San Vicente to buy flour."

  Though he hadn't thought much about it since dig ging it out of the yard, the ninety-one dollars—seventy-five of it for Gutierrez—suddenly seemed heavy and hot in his pants pocket. He dropped a hand to cover it, thinking what a catastrophe it would be if he lost it. Or if someone took it from him.

  Walking, not slow, not fast, Jose went on until he saw the lights of the border station. At that point, he looked up at the street sign, checked the map again, and made a sharp left turn, going down a dirt street. Within two blocks, the houses began to be scattered, and the lights faded out.

  Once, a car came up behind them, and Jose said to himself, just look at it, wave, and keep walking. His heart hammered as the headlights washed over them.

  Aside from his breathing, and the slither of his feet over the loose dust and sand of the road, there were only night sounds. Crickets and frogs dinned in the nearby irrigation ditch that paralleled the road. It was warm, and Jose felt his shirt begin to get wet.

  Sanchez kept easy pace, his big head rotating from side to side, nose sniffing.

  In a few minutes, Jose stopped to study a concrete kilometer marker. He said quietly to Sanchez, "Now, we must cross the field."

  He guessed the field was about half a kilometer wide. Trotting, occasionally looking back, he moved in a straight line through the knee-high weeds. Sanchez bounded almost soundlessly beside him.

  When they reached the road, Jose stopped and squatted in the weeds that flanked it. The lights of Tecate were over his shoulders to the left. Now and then, faint sounds drifted through. Music and the honk of horns.

  After he'd, caught his breath, he whispered, "Okay, Sanchez," and they were off again.

  In a moment, Jose could see the high fence and said, "Stop, Sanchez." He made out the dark mass of reeds against the bottom of the fence. That had to be the spot.

  "Come," he whispered and began to crawl. Sanchez seemed puzzled that Jose was traveling on all fours and kept bumping him. It took less than two minutes to reach the fence. He started to touch it but then remembered hearing that sometimes the fences were wired for alarm.

  On his knees in the damp earth of the drainway, he carefully parted the reeds and saw the open space, about two square feet beneath the fence. He whispered to Sanchez, "Go through."

  The dog stared at him, stumpy tail flagging.

  "Go through," Jose repeated.

  Sanchez sat down, panting heavily, his tongue out and dripping. He looked at Jose as if this were a rest time during a game.

  Jose snorted with frustration and decided he'd have to go under first. He started through but found himself almost crushed in the narrow entry when Sanchez piled in beside him, like a playful hippo.

  And then they were in the Estados Unidos.

  It was all so simple.

  The American road was less than a kilometer away, and Jose stayed on his knees to look and listen. His dark face glistened with sweat. He made the sign of the cross and rose to a crouch, whispering, "Okay, Sanchez."

  They plunged on toward the road, stopping only when the headlights of a car lifted to spray the whole area with light. Jose flattened to the ground.

  Before going on again, Jose straightened up and looked both ways. Then he nodded off to the left. They angled that way, and Jose soon saw Gutierrez standing out in front of the raised hood, as if the Chevy were in trouble. The lights were on.

  A truck roared by, stirring the warm air, trailing exhaust.

  Jose stopped and crouched again. As the diesel noise subsided, he said softly, "Señor Gutierrez."

  The pocho did not even look up. His hands were down in the engine. But Jose heard his voice. "Move quickly. The trunk is open. Get in it."

  They raced for the back of the car. Jose whipped the lid up and crawled in, kneeling on the blanket Gutierrez had put down. Then he sprawled out on his side. There was plenty of room.

  Sanchez hesitated, puzzled. He was standing by the bumper looking suspicious. Suddenly he began yelping.

  "Shut him up," Gutierrez snarled.

  "Get in," Jose told the dog.

  Sanchez finally leaped up, and Jose pulled the lid down, closing out the stars.

  Sanchez was still confused and frightened. He began to thump around like a calf in a stock run, banging against Jose; trying to stand up. Enrique was right. Sanchez was insane. Punching him hard on a flank, Jose said, angrily, "Settle down."

  Up front, Gutierrez slammed the hood. He walked to the back, lifted the trunk lid, looked in, and banged it shut, saying nothing.

  Jose heard the car start and put his arm around Sanchez's neck. His throat felt as dry as the dust on the road to Enrique's.

  6

  THE INSIDE OF THE TRUNK smelled of exhaust fumes and rubber and metal. And, more and more, of Sanchez.

  The wheel by Jose's ear whined, and there was a steady roar from the tailpipe beneath him. He felt like an eel stuffed into a dark bottle. He was curled up against the right-hand side of the car, his head on the shelf-like base that usually held the spare tire.

  Sanchez was cramped against the other side, his paws extending to Jose's belly. He seemed resigned now and had stopped moving around.

  The old car roared on, slowing now and then for curves. There was plenty of air in the trunk when it moved fast but about twenty minutes after they'd started, Gutierrez put on the brakes for a stop sign. The fumes became thick, and Jose closed his mouth and held his nose. Sanchez sneezed several times.

  A while later, there was another stop, and then Jose felt the car make a sharp turn. He whispered to Sanchez, "I think we're headed north."

  He wished there was a crack so that he could see out. It was a shame to have the tires flying over this new country and not be able to see it. He wondered when Gutierrez would let them sit up front.

  Soon, the constant drone from the tailpipe caused him to drift off to sleep.

  It was early in the morning when Gutierrez finally stopped and got out of the car, awakening Jose. For a moment, panic hit him. He wondered if the patrol had stopped Gutierrez, but he heard no voices.

  Then the key turned in the lock, and fresh air rushed in. Jose blinked up at Gutierrez, and Sanchez rose to his feet, shaking his head.

  The pocho was smiling. "Good morning," he said. "It's safe now. You can ride up front."

  Jose crawled out of the trunk, Sanchez leaping ahead of him. He did not realize how stiff he was until his feet touched the ground. He worked his legs and arms while Sanchez' body lengthened in a stretch that seemed to go forever.

  "It was hard to tell my elbow from my knee in there," he said.

  Sanchez lifted his leg on Gutierrez' back tire. The pocho grunted with annoyance but then said, "We
ll, I guess that's a good idea."

  For a moment, they breathed in the crisp mountain air. It was barely light; cold, damp, and misty. Jose looked around at the scrub trees. The road was deserted and ghostly.

  "We better go," Gutierrez said.

  As Gutierrez pulled away, he handed a small thermos to Jose, along with a bag containing tortillas and white cheese. Jose filled a cup with hot milk and drank it. Then he put some cheese between two cold tortillas. He passed some cheese back to Sanchez, reminding himself to get Sanchez water when they stopped for gas.

  His mouth full of cheese and tortilla, Jose asked, "Where will we go after we find my father?"

  "San Ramon, in the Salinas Valley."

  It meant nothing to Jose, but he was glad it had a Spanish name. Perhaps there would be a lot of people who spoke Spanish up there. "My father will work there?"

  Gutierrez nodded. "There are many people from Mexico working on the ranches and in the fields."

  "Will they be like us?"

  Eyes narrowing, Gutierrez glanced over. "You mean wetbacks? Yes, some will be."

  "How did we get that name?" Jose asked. "Its a bad name." So was the Spanish name, alambristo—fence jumper.

  Gutierrez chuckled but kept his eyes on the road. "What's a name? A long time ago Mexicans swam the rivers and canals to cross the border. Some still do. That's how they got the name. I think it came from Texas. But don't let it bother you. We are helping them. Americans do not like to work the fields."

  Jose thought about that for a while and then said, "You know, I can't speak much English."

  "You'll learn," Gutierrez said. "Have your father buy a small radio. That's the way I learned thirty years ago. It will be much easier for you. Old people have a problem."

  "I hope it is easy," Jose said, yawning.

  At sunrise, they reached Elsinore and started down the mountain slope toward San Juan Capistrano. Jose, who had been dozing, awakened before they arrived at the village and asked about the mission. He'd heard a story about millions of swallows living there.

  Gutierrez said, "It's just ahead, but I don't think we should stop. Our luck is good. Let's keep it that way."

  Jose agreed.

  "Someday you can come back and see it."

  "Yes."

  Finally, they came to the Santa Ana Freeway and headed north. Jose began watching everything.

  Beside the freeway, the fields were lush and green, though the low grass mountains, farther back, were brown from summer heat. There were miles of orange groves; great fields that made their own field at Colnett look as if it could be held in a hand.

  Soon, houses began to appear on either side of the freeway; hundreds of them. Jose was stunned by their number.

  "Many have swimming pools," Gutierrez said. "Just wait. These are only the poor people."

  "With swimming pools?" Jose was certain it was a joke.

  Gutierrez laughed. "I have a real treat for you. We will pass Disneyland in about a half hour. You know of that place?"

  Jose had read about it, and Fernando had been up there. That's all he'd bragged about for weeks. Jose wished Gutierrez would volunteer to stop so they could have a better look. But he didn't mention it.

  His head swiveled from side to side as they passed house after house tucked against the freeway. Unlike at Colnett, the neighbors were close enough to call over to each other; maybe to hear each other cough. There would never be a problem of having someone to talk to.

  "I did not know about this," Jose said, and Gutierrez grinned over at him, taking pleasure from his excitement.

  And cars! Everyone owned a car. It was incredible. It was rush hour, and there seemed to be thousands of them. Most of them looked new; not covered with mud and dust, not patched up, Jose noticed.

  Then the alp of Disneyland loomed on the left. "There," Gutierrez said, stealing a glance at the wide eyes and open mouth.

  It was exactly like the pictures Jose had seen in the comic book at the San Vicente store. It was just as Fernando had described it. He could imagine what lay beyond that alp. There was a train that ran on a single rail, and a riverboat in a man-made lake, and a rocket and a pirate's den. He got up on his hands and knees so he could look past the back of Gutierrez's head.

  "Disneyland, Sanchez," he said, pointing, but the dog was digging beneath a scarred ear with a hind paw, paying no attention.

  The skyline of Los Angeles rose and fell, and they went by other towns solidly against each other for more than an hour. They stopped for gas in one, and Jose got water for Sanchez.

  Rolling again, they were in ranchlands. By the time they reached the outskirts of Oxnard, Jose's eyes were bleary. Cabo Colnett and its lonely silence was on another planet, and he did not care if he ever saw it again.

  Although Jose could hardly wait to meet his father, he was concerned about Sanchez. The last few miles he'd thought of how best to do it—keep Sanchez well hidden in the back seat until he'd greeted his father? Or maybe let Sanchez bound out ahead of him, wag that chopped-off tail, and jump up on Maldonado, as usual. Either way, it was a problem. He hoped his father would be in a good mood.

  Gutierrez headed for a long, tin-roofed shed by a railroad spur track Jose could see boxes of carrots on the platform. There were also hampers that looked as if they might hold beans. They were being loaded into trucks.

  At the far end was an office building. A number of men were standing around outside. Some were Mexican, Jose noticed. They wore straw hats, white shirts, jeans, and heavy shoes, much as Maldonado usually did. But Jose could not spot his father.

  Gutierrez stopped and looked around. "He said he'd meet us here. By the loading dock for Consolidated Farms."

  "It's a busy place," Jose said anxiously.

  "Stay in the car," Gutierrez said. "I'll find him." He got out and went into the office building.

  Sanchez had poked his head out of the back window and was sniffing the countryside. There was a smell of liquid fertilizer in the air. Jose said to him, "You act like you're happy to see him, eh? Wag your tail."

  Jose was tempted to get out and ask some of the men around the office building if they knew Maldonado, from Cabo Colnett. He didn't recognize any of them, but he thought they might have met Maldonado in the fields.

  Then he saw Gutierrez pounding down the short flight of steps from the office. His face was grim.

  Gutierrez slid back into the car and shut the door with a bang. He slapped the steering wheel. "Your father isn't here."

  "Where is he?"

  "About a hundred fifty miles away by now. A crop needed picking. They were short-handed, so they took him over there this morning."

  Jose didn't know what to say.

  "He left a message with the bus dispatcher."

  "Did he have to go?"

  Gutierrez glanced over. "Yes." He saw the look of disappointment and fright on Jose's face.

  "Jose, your father is not legal and these men know it. They know they can tell him what to do and where to go. If he causes trouble, they get rid of him and then let Immigration know. Besides, he's up here to earn money He needs the work."

  "What did the message say?"

  "He wants me to take you on to San Ramon. He'll join you there in about ten days, when they finish the picking."

  Jose was alarmed at the thought of being alone for ten days in a strange place. In Colnett, it was bad enough. "Where will I stay?"

  Gutierrez turned the key. "Haines's Farm. You'll both be working there. I'll talk to Eduardo. He won't like it, but what can I do?" He turned the car in a tight circle.

  Out on the road again, heading north, he said, "It'll be all right, Jose. I just wish you didn't have this damn dog along. Eddie wasn't even expecting you, much less a dog."

  "Maybe I should go to my father."

  Gutierrez shook his head. "That would be worse, where he is. At least I know Eddie."

  They drove in silence until finally Gutierrez cooled down. "You just mind your business
up there, and make that dog behave, huh? It'll be all right. Haines has the best labor camp in California. Some are sewers."

  Jose nodded and took to watching the country again. Now and then, they saw the ocean. They passed oil wells and went through a large town, and then they were in farmland again.

  7

  ALMOST THREE HOURS LATER, the Chevrolet came down off the new freeway ramp, and Jose saw the village of San Ramon.

  Gutierrez said, "It isn't much."

  Jose thought it looked magnificent. It was twenty times the size of San Vicente. Its main street was paved. There were stores and a post office. There was a big mission and church. There was a railroad crossing and even streetlights. Gutierrez was spoiled, he thought.

  They headed east over a dirt road toward Haines's Bright-Pack Farm.

  "What do we do about Sanchez?" Jose asked, a bit nervously.

  "Let him stay in the back seat until I talk to Eddie. Keep him quiet."

  In a few minutes, they drove through the Haines's gate. It was a giant farm, with many buildings and much equipment. There were a half-dozen big tractor trailers parked not far inside the fence, each with massive painted tomatoes and heads of lettuce on the sides.

  Gutierrez stopped the car about a hundred feet from the small office building. Dropping his chubby hands into his lap, he took a deep breath. "All right, we're here. I'll take the rest of the money now."

  Jose hesitated. "I was to give this to my father to give to you."

  "But your father isn't here."

  Jose nodded. With his back to Gutierrez, he dug into his pocket and counted out the final seventy-five dollars. It seemed like a lot of money for so short a trip. Nineteen dollars was left, and he planned to give this to his father. He handed the fee to Gutierrez.

  The pocho folded it and said, "Now, let's go see Eduardo. He's the No. 2 foreman. You let me do the talking."

  Jose pulled the fiber suitcase out from beside the dog.

  Gutierrez went into the office and came back out with Eddie, who looked about the same age as Maldonado. He had a thin mustache and clipped hair. They moved to one side of the office building and paused.