The Maldonado Miracle

  Jose frowned. It all seemed so complicated up here. Why should there be deals? They were all earning wages. Still puzzled, he asked Giron.

  Giron laughed hollowly. "People! Makes no difference whether you're Mexican or American, Jose. They do things mostly for themselves. For profit."

  That had not really occurred to Jose. His father and Enrique seemed to do very little for themselves, aside from taking good care to feed their stomachs and having a few beers. He thought about it for a moment, deciding it was too large a thing to figure out all at once.

  He got his towel and with Sanchez tagging along, went to the shower. He had never taken a hot shower, and he was looking forward to it. His father had rigged a cold one at Colnett with an oil drum, but most of the summer baths he had taken in a tin tub in the yard. In the winter months, he'd taken them on the floor of the adobe, his father or mother pouring in steaming water from a kettle.

  On the steps of the oval-roofed, corrugated iron building, he ordered Sanchez to stay and went inside. It smelled of strong disinfectant mixed with sweat and steam. There were toilet stalls at one end of the building, near the door, and shaving basins and mirrors along one wall. In the center of the room was a long wooden bench on which to park clothing, shoes, and towels. Most of the men had gone, but a few were still coming in. A few were under the showers.

  Jose put his soap and towel on an empty space on the bench. At the far end, the heavy-set americano picker was peeling down. His flabby body was the color of flour except for the vee at his neck, which was mahogany colored, as was his face. From his elbows down, his arms, too, were mahogany He looked painted.

  Eyeing Jose, he yelled, "Hey, we got the new one tonight."

  Jose did not understand what he was saying and turned his head the other way, feeling self-conscious.

  The americano said, "He's pretty. He looks tender."

  Jose heard some of the men laughing. Taking his shirt off, he felt crimson rising under his cheeks.

  The americano laughed. "Not so tender at all, now that I see him. He's got mus-culls."

  Jose wondered whether or not he should leave. Something about the way the man was talking did not seem right. But he slipped his jeans off, tossing them beside his shirt.

  There was a whistle, "Whew-whew!" As he stripped on down, the whistle went, "Whew-whew-wheeeeeee..."

  There were about ten open nozzles spraying into soap-slicked drains. The last nozzle wasn't being used, and Jose went over to it quickly, glancing up to see that the flabby man had moved to the next one.

  "What's your name, boy?" he asked, reaching over to twist a valve.

  Jose thought he understood but said nothing. This man with the soft face and double chin made him ill. He ignored him as the hot water began to spray. He scrubbed and then turned to let the water slam into his face.

  The americano shouted, "You not very friendly, boy."

  Jose felt a hand grasp his shoulder and wondered if he should shout for Sanchez. The hand held him firmly. Moving out of the stream of water, he said, "Please, señor."

  The man grinned. "I jus' want you an' I to be friendly."

  The hand began to press. There was something strange and terrible about this man, and Jose tried to pull his shoulder away.

  "Jus' relax."

  Jose could stand it no longer. Without thinking about what he was doing, he scooped scum off the soap tray and flung it into the man's eyes.

  The americano screamed and wiped at his face, then drew back an open palm, cursing wildly.

  A voice cut through the shower room, speaking in English. It was like a whip pop, and Jose looked over to see a strapping man about six nozzles down with his finger pointed their way. White suds cascaded over his naked black body His eyes were glaring.

  Surprised, the flabby man dropped his hand. Finally, he turned the shower off and waddled back down the bench line. The black man spoke sharply as he passed, his finger forking out like an ebony arrow.

  Heart drumming, now understanding what Eddie meant about the "soccer ball," Jose finished his shower without looking toward the far end of the room. As he was drying off, the black man came up, mopping himself with a towel. He said, "Watch that one, kid. He's nothin' but evil." Jose did not fully understand, but recognized the word evil, for the black man added, "Malo. Muy malo."

  Jose said, "Muchas gracias, señor." He dressed quickly and got Sanchez. As he began walking down the dirt lane between the cabins, he met Giron, who was headed for the bath with his cake of soap and towel. He started to tell the teacher but decided not to. There might be more trouble. He might be kicked off the farm and that would mean Maldonado couldn't work.

  Giron grinned. "Makes you feel good, huh?"

  "Yes, señor," Jose replied and went on to No. 6.

  During the evening meal, Jose noticed that the americano was glancing at him now and then, but he kept his eyes on his plate, or on other things.

  In the twilight, he took Sanchez for a long run in the newly plowed field east of Haines Main, hoping that his father would soon arrive. Maldonado could snap the flabby man like a bean.

  Back in the cabin, while Giron wrote in his notebook, Jose took the stub of pencil from his suitcase and on the back of a small box he'd retrieved from behind the kitchen began sketching the field workers picking tomatoes. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding the box on his knees.

  Soon, Giron looked over. Then he got up and stood by Jose. "I didn't know you could do this," he said. "That's marvelous."

  "It is nothing. Without color, you cannot see the green of the fields or the red of the tomatoes."

  "But you have the feeling. That's the way it looked today. Have you had art lessons?"

  "No, señor."

  "It's remarkable. You have a lot of talent."

  Feeling very pleased, Jose went back to work on it.

  In bed, Giron said, "I'm surprised your father didn't try to call here tonight."

  "He knows that I am okay."

  "How does he know that?"

  Jose was silent for a moment, then said, "My father was a man when he was a boy, and I guess he thinks I am that way, too."

  "Are you?"

  "No."

  "You seem to do all right."

  Then Jose told Giron something he'd never told anyone else. "I love my father, but I don't like him. Do you understand?"

  "Hmh."

  "Do you understand?"

  "I suppose so. I've just never heard it put that way."

  Jose talked about Maldonado for a while, and then Giron talked about his father. Jose learned that Giron was from a big family and that they lived in the barrio in East Los Angeles. Giron's father was a tile setter, and one of Girons brothers and one of his sisters had gone to college, too.

  Jose fell asleep thinking enviously about the large Giron family, and wondering where his father was; what he was doing.

  10

  THERE WAS NO ONE else of Jose's age in the labor camp, but he'd noticed that there were some young people in several houses about a half kilometer away. Giron had said that these were foremen homes. They were roomy and neat. New cars or trucks were usually parked around them.

  At one house Jose had spotted a red-haired boy who looked about thirteen. There was also a pale, blond girl who might be eleven or twelve at the same house. Although they probably did not speak Spanish, he thought he might talk to them the way he'd talked to some of the turistas at Colnett. Pointing, saying a word or two in English.

  He discussed it with Giron. The teacher said, "Why not? You should make friends here. But I wouldn't tell them about crawling under that fence."

  Jose laughed. "I wouldn't know how to tell them in English."

  The next night, Friday, he decided how he'd do it. He couldn't just walk up and say, "We amigo, eh?" It was better to do something like his father and Enrique did at Colnett.

  On Saturday morning he began collecting horseflies, selecting the big ones that zoomed around the fields, drawn by the
fertilized earth. He placed them in a plastic vial he'd found the previous year on the beach below Melings. Tiny air holes were punched into the top.

  Giron came by just as he grabbed one. "What in the world are you doing?"

  "Catching flies, of course." Jose laughed, shoving a fly into the vial.

  "Oh? Well, that's a hobby I've never heard of." Shaking his head, Giron rested his full lug of Bright-Packs. "What do you do with them?"

  "I'll show you some time," Jose replied, pleased with himself.

  They knocked off at noon, as scheduled, and went back to Haines Main for lunch. After eating, Giron said he wanted to go into town. He needed the lice spray and a new toothbrush, and joked about getting some perfume for Sanchez. Jose asked if he could go along, and took a dollar of the Colnett money from the hiding place under his mattress. He did not think his father would mind, now that he was earning a wage.

  In San Ramon, Giron made his purchases, and Jose bought a tube of quick-drying glue. When they returned to the labor camp, it was practically deserted. Some of the men were sleeping. Others were playing horseshoes or checkers beneath the pepper trees. Still others had gone into town to drink beer or wine in the Spanish cafe. It was a warm, lazy afternoon.

  Giron began playing checkers with the man next door. From beneath the bunk Jose took a small balsa glider that he'd bought in Ensenada. He stuck the glue into his pocket, checked the flies to see if they were still strong, and headed for the foremen houses. Sanchez followed.

  He spotted the boy out in the side yard, working on his bike. It was saddle-down, and the chain was off the sprocket. Jose hesitated a moment, then went into the open field beside the house. Stealing a glance, he saw that the boy was staring at him.

  He inserted the wing into the glider, then the rudder and tail fins. He tested it with a shallow arc, and it glided smoothly back to the ground. Then he took the glue out and uncapped it, feeling the boy's eyes still on him.

  He opened the vial, extracted a horsefly bigger than a bumblebee but not as fat, and put a spot of the fast-setting glue on its belly, pushing it down midway on the glider's wing. He blew on it.

  By this time, he was almost certain the boy was walking toward him. He waited a moment, then released the glider. It rose in the air on angry wings.

  Jose heard a voice speaking in English just behind him. "Hey, where'd you learn to do that?" He did not understand the words but knew that they formed a question.

  Grinning, he turned. "Hi, amigo."

  The glider zoomed crazily through the air, and the red-haired boy laughed. "Wow," he yelled. He had freckles and a wide mouth. There were wire braces on his teeth.

  As usual, the fly eventually loosened itself and took off like a frightened midget quail. The glider came slowly back to earth, landing perfectly on its spar.

  Jose shook the vial and held it up, nodding toward the glider. The boy grinned and ran for it. When he came back, Jose passed him the glue and motioned for him to try it.

  "Who taught you that?" the boy asked. "I've never seen that before."

  Jose thought he understood but didn't know how to explain. There weren't many things to do at Cabo Colnett, so you invented things that cost little money. Hies were free. Glue wasn't much. If you were careful, a glider lasted hundreds of flights.

  "I'm Michael. Mike," the boy said.

  That translated to Miguel, Jose was certain.

  Jose tapped his chest. "Jose Maldonado. Joe."

  The boy examined the raging flies.

  Jose said, "You, Miguel. Fly. Fly." He made an airplane motion with his hands.

  They made eight more flights and then fixed the bike chain. Finally they went inside. Jose had never been in an americano house. No one else was home. The kitchen was dazzling white and full of machinery.

  They went up to Michaels room. He had his own bed; books, games, a train, even a radio. Jose sat on the edge of the bed, smiling and nodding, touching something now and then, yet not wanting to let the red-hair know he'd never seen a boy's room so full of things.

  In late afternoon, he went back to Cabin 6 to tell Giron about it, the words rushing out. He told him everything except the fact that he now thought he'd like to have white skin and red hair like Miguel. Speak English and live in a house like that.

  Sunday morning, Jose dressed for mass, putting on a fresh shirt and clean pants, getting his black boots out of tissue paper beneath the bunk. Giron had reluctantly agreed to take him in, and they locked Sanchez in the cabin.

  On the way, Jose said, "I think I should go to confession soon."

  "Certainly," Giron replied. "I'll have to check the priest's schedule."

  "Should I tell the priest about the fence? Where I'm from?"

  Giron looked over. "You don't need to go that far. No one has ever told a priest absolutely everything."

  Jose laughed. That's what Enrique had said, too.

  They didn't have to walk all the way. One of the flatbeds chugged past them and stopped. They brushed the field dirt off and leaped up to the rough boards.

  MISSION SAN RAMON had been periodically rebuilt since the early 1900s and was constructed in the familiar square-fort form, a Moorish-style, bell-towered church dominating the southwest corner. Inside the square were the gardens, a patio, and a walkway, which were usually occupied by swarms of white pigeons. Some of the early friars and their Indian converts were buried in the gardens, spaced around the Fourteen Stations of the Cross.

  On the other three sides of the square were the original workshops, storerooms, and kitchen. From the end of the church and sacristy, under thick, vine-wrapped arches, were the old padre and guest rooms. They now housed Father Lebeon, the mission priest, his brother monks, and his staff. Two storerooms had been converted into a museum, displaying ancient Bibles, books on medicine, Indian paintings, branding irons for the mission cattle, old vestments, and prayer books.

  Jose and Giron strolled around until eleven and then went into the church. The padre was a compact, dark-haired man. His cheeks were pale, with a spot of color near each cheekbone.

  Jose whispered to Giron, "He looks very tough."

  Like his father, he had always been afraid of priests. They represented great authority.

  Giron nodded.

  After a while, Father Lebeon began delivering his sermon in English, which was of little satisfaction to Jose. He'd always been bored by sermons, anyway, even in Baja. He liked the ceremony, the music, the stained-glass windows, the statues, but never the sermons.

  Yet this was a beautiful church, quite unlike any he'd ever seen. It was by far the oldest church he'd been in. It was not as fancy as the big one in Ensenada; not half the size, either. But there was something very peaceful about it.

  When the mass was over, the noon Angelus was rung by one of the Franciscan brothers. As they went out into the bright sunshine, to the tolling of the bell, Jose asked, "What'll we do this afternoon?"

  Looking down the length of San Ramon, which seemed abandoned, Giron sighed. There was really nothing to do. "If I was back in Los Angeles, I'd probably go sailing with a friend of mine off Long Beach. And I'd take you. But here ... I think we'd better just go back to the camp and lie under the pepper trees. I've got some work to do on my notes."

  Jose groaned.

  But as they walked away, Giron said, "I hear we'll have a day off next week. Before we shift to picking cucumbers. You and I will go to Salinas, a city north of here. Not as large as Los Angeles or San Francisco but large enough. How's that?"

  "Couldn't I be caught?"

  Giron laughed. "No, put that out of your mind. You've seen all the Mexicans around here. You look no different from them."

  That was true, Jose thought. He just felt different.

  That afternoon, Jose took three hours to draw a portrait of Giron and then presented it to him.

  "It's terrific, Jose," Giron said. "It looks just like me."

  He did not say the ears were too big.

  11
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  THE TOMATO FIELDS were finished Monday. They worked until dark to load the last lugs. There would be a later pick when more ripened. But now the loading platforms were jammed with boxes labeled "Bright-Pack." Heavy diesel trucks were being filled and lumbered out periodically. The pickers would not work again until Wednesday morning. Some of the men had already left Haines Main to go on to other farms. Not so many would be needed for the cucumbers.

  Just past seven on Tuesday morning, Jose and Giron walked and hitched to San Ramon to catch the Greyhound north. Giron wore slacks, a yellow jumper, and expensive-looking shoes. Jose was proud to be with him. He looked more americano than Mexican.

  As they sat down, far in the back, Jose whispered, "Did you see how the bus driver stared at me?"

  Giron laughed it off. "Put it out of your mind." As he dug his shoulders into the soft seat, he added, "As a matter of fact, Mexico used to own this state. You and I are the new Mexican army. We'll take it back again."

  Jose laughed, too, feeling less like a criminal.

  The bus began to speed along the freeway, skirting the Salinas River. "That is part of the reason the earth is so good here, Jose. But it's a strange river. Sometimes it runs on the surface; sometimes underground for long distances."

  "You know a lot of things," Jose said.

  Giron smiled. "I know we will conquer Salinas."

  Jose decided to pretend, just for the day, that Giron was his father. Giron was dressed so well, and was so confident about everything. Maldonado would not mind, he knew.

  The countryside became even more fertile as they went north. In some fields, dozens of irrigation nozzles swished back and forth, sending great sprays of shining water across the crops. Back on the yellowed hills to the east, at the beginning of the mountains, cattle grazed. Jose wondered if Baja would ever look like this.

  They rode in silence for a while and then Giron said, "We'll walk around, see the stores, have a good meal. Perhaps we can find a movie this afternoon."

  Jose nodded happily. He'd been to the cinema once in Ensenada; the second trip there, when he was eleven.