Broken Ground (30 page)

In teaching the two older groups, I follow Thomas's suggestions. The younger children, as promised, begin creating their own fairy tales. Though most of them have yet to read any stories besides “Rapunzel,” theirs are chock-f of details and motifs reminiscent of Grimm. There are magic beans and plants that grow to great heights and transport characters to otherworldly realms. There are flowers in which whole miniature families live happily, until blight comes or a giant takes a single step and, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not, crushes what has been home. There are runaway children, and stolen children, and royal children who've been told they're the poorest of the poor. And there's the pervasive presence of
La Bruja, La Llorona
—sometimes a witch, sometimes a wicked stepmother, sometimes a wealthy landowner or government official, who hunts children down, separates and divides families, instills fear and causes grief. As the children shape their fairy tales, I transcribe them. And I learn more about their lives, some of which hold events that make the most dramatic and adventurous twists and turns in their fairy tales seem moderate, even mundane, by comparison.

About Daniel's life, I have yet to learn anything, though all of us in our little home—Silvia, Luis, and myself—try to gather information. If Daniel ever chooses to reveal himself, my hunch is that it will be to Luis. Daniel reminds Luis of his younger brother, and I wouldn't be surprised if Luis reminds Daniel of an older brother, or perhaps his father. Both Daniel and Luis are reserved people, guarded and shy. Luis takes watchful care of the boy, nights when he's home from work—the kind of care he once reserved only for Silvia. Luis is the one who adjusts Daniel's splint while Silvia oversees. Luis is the one who administers the herbs and teas that lessen Daniel's pain and, Silvia promises, will hasten and ensure healing. Luis moves between the two of them, his wife and this child, with a tender attentiveness that, on any given night, deeply moves me. They are creating the rhythms of a family, with their roles and quirks and unspoken understandings. As Daniel, with the resilience of youth, gains more strength and confidence, Silvia grows frailer and quieter. Soon Daniel watches over her as Luis does him. In fact, Daniel displaces me as her caretaker by day. Silvia has a hard time taking food now; she has become a remote, still presence whose focus, it seems, has turned solely interior as she works to bring her baby into this world. The person who best draws her out is Daniel. He's also the person who best encourages her to eat. And if I'm grateful to the boy for this, I know Luis will be indebted to him for life.

By the week's end, most of the young children in my group have nearly finished their fairy tales, all of which have happy endings achieved through a variety of means: gifts and talents bestowed by ancestors, fantastical creatures based on their own legends—forest sprites, mermaids, snakes, and sorcerers who change shape. Sometimes simply cleverness suffices. The children yearn to start their illustrations. So on Friday afternoon, I hitch a ride into Puebla with Hector and purchase blank notebooks at the five-and-dime—enough for every child in my group, as well as every child, regardless of age, who joins us at that bonfire. I purchase colored pencils and watercolor paints. At the last moment, I remember to add a notebook for Daniel, and then I tuck in a bag of assorted penny candies for him, too. I step outside with about twenty minutes to spare before Hector, who's been asked by the farm owner to pick up some supplies at the feed store, will be ready to go. Bags in hand, I feel the weight of my pocketbook clutched under my arm. It holds the rest of the money I earned as Tobias's assistant. Suddenly, I want to be rid of that money, and as much as I want to be rid of it, I want it put to the best possible use. If there was any danger of Tobias killing my love of teaching, these children have saved it. What better use for the money than to spend it on them?

I turn around and go back into the five-and-dime. I collect more pencils, but I don't stop there. With the clerk's help, I gather reading and arithmetic workbooks, cards with the letters of the alphabet written on them in cursive, so the children can start practicing that. Colored craft paper, scissors, and glue. Boxes of chalk, along with two dozen little chalkboards so the children can save paper. I buy rulers and paste and blunt-nosed scissors. And then I am done. All in all, I have spent more money than I have since I came to California, more money than I have spent in my
life
. Now we just need an actual school.

On the ride back to camp, I ask Hector if he would mind singing a song. “
Cantas una canción?
‘
La Llorona
'
?
” Having heard so much about her from the children, I want to hear her song again. Hector shrugs, but willingly complies.

Todos me dicen el negro, Llorona

Negro pero cariñoso.

He sings all the verses and then sadly shakes his head. “
Muy triste
.”

He breaks out into a happier tune, a Mexican folk song that's all bouncy rhythm and lilting melody. This song accompanies us all the way back to camp.

It's early evening when Hector drops me off at Luis and Silvia's. I find Daniel sitting outside, his bound arm cradled against his narrow chest, watching Luis chop wood. Luis drops the ax and, eyebrows raised in surprise, helps me unload my many purchases. I feel a flash of guilt—how many people could be fed by the money I spent?—but then Luis says, “
Para la escuela?
” When I assure him that this is indeed for our school, he nods, satisfied, and helps me carry the bags inside. Silvia sleeps through our coming and going; she must be terribly depleted today. I watch her for a moment after Luis goes back out to resume his chore; yes, her chest rises and falls, yes, she is breathing. Then—because my staying here might soon disturb her, and it's a lovely evening, balmy for July in California—I decide to go outside, too. I quietly draw the paper bag of penny candy from where it's tucked among the new notebooks, then ease my way out the door, and sit down beside Daniel. I pass him the bag of candy. His eyes widen. “For me?”

I nod, smiling. “All for you.”

He stares into the bag, deliberating for such a long time that Luis splits five pieces of wood. Finally, Daniel decides on a cherry sour ball. He unwraps it and pops it into his mouth. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. But don't eat too many all at once or you'll feel sick.”

Daniel nods. “And thank you for this.” He lifts the little silver cross from where it's hanging beneath his shirt, and looks directly at me as he never has, his gaze unabashed and steady. “I thought it was lost forever.” He tucks the cross underneath his shirt again.

“You're most welcome.”

We watch Luis for a moment, his wiry body moving fluidly and efficiently as he splits the logs, and then Daniel holds out a cherry ball for me.

“Oh, no! It's for you.”

“Please. I used to share all the time when there was plenty. Or at least, there was enough.”

I take the candy. In this moment, Daniel seems more at ease with himself than I've ever seen him. There is his favorite, Luis, working away, providing as he can, and here Daniel is, holding plenty—something he hasn't had in a long, long while, something unrelated to survival, something for pure pleasure. In this moment, he is what every child wants to be: safe and content.

“There never was an aunt and uncle, you know,” Daniel says, his gaze on Luis. “I slept wherever I could. Sometimes a family let me inside. But mostly, I was in the field, or among the trees along the road. A few nights, when there were bad storms, I slept in a privy.”

“I'm sorry.”

Daniel cracks down on what's left of his sour ball and swallows it. After another long deliberation, he takes out a stick of black licorice and bites off the end. “It's better than living on the streets of Pasadena. That's where I was before I found my way here.”

I hold very still, not wanting to startle or disrupt him, only wanting him to keep talking. And he does. He goes on to tell me what happened after our encounter at the football game. He got away from the guard, got home safely, as did his friends. For months, life went on as it always had. But then one day in late January, he skipped school for a lark and roamed the streets with a friend until suppertime. When he went home, everyone was gone. His family had been deported, along with almost everyone else on their street. “There were a few of us kids left together. We managed to get by. Then one day the others got picked up and I was the only one. I'd heard about Kirk Camp. So I found my way here.” He doesn't tell me how. He finishes his licorice stick. “It didn't make a real difference, though, being here. I was still alone.”

I have to clear my throat before I can speak. “Well, now you're not alone. Not at all.”

Luis looks over, wiping the sweat from his brow. Daniel leaps up and goes to him. He takes a lemon drop from the bag and, to Luis's surprise, offers it. They exchange a few words in Spanish that I can't make out. Then Daniel returns to me, shoulders back, head held high. For the first time at Kirk Camp, I have a glimpse of the bold, generous boy who risked so much returning Helen's shoe to me. Like this, I would know him anywhere.

“I'm going to save the rest.” He plops down beside me again, rolls the top of the bag closed, then sighs, rests his chin in his good hand, and watches Luis with such naked admiration and loyalty that I have to look away.

“I'm sorry I did all those bad things,” he says.

“It's all right.” I hesitate, but then I do it. I rest my hand lightly on Daniel's shoulder. “No need to apologize again.”

Daniel shifts away from me, ducking my touch. But Luis, he gives me a fleeting smile.

N
ext day, midafternoon, there's a knock at the door. I open it to find Thomas leaning on his crutches. His left pants leg hangs empty below the knee. He flicks his fingers against that thigh, gives me a tense smile. “Got a favor to ask. My . . . device is supposed to be fixed and ready. Hector said I could borrow his truck to pick it up in Puebla, but I'm wondering if you could drive me? My hand still isn't in good shape, and, well, you know about my leg as much as anyone, I guess. I don't want to make anything worse.”

My heart bangs in my chest. He asked
me
. Then again, who else would he ask? Most everyone is at work in the fields.

“Let me think,” I say. Daniel can stay with Silvia, and she's sleeping the deep way she does now and again (not often enough), which could go on for hours. “Yes,” I say. “As long as we can make it back for the bonfire.”

He nods. “If I can, I'd like to be there tonight, too.”

“You're able to teach?”

He shrugs. “Least I can do is try.”

I let Daniel know what's happening, then we walk to where Hector parked his truck, and Thomas passes me the keys.

As we drive toward Puebla, I glance over at Thomas's burned hand. The surface of the burn is hardening, forming a deep red shield against the tenderness within. But it still looks ugly and painful. He's right. He shouldn't drive. I am just the person available to do so. That's all.

We park in front of the low brick building that Thomas says is the doctor's office. He suggests I look around town while he goes in, but I say I'll just wait in the truck. The cab smells familiar; I've been trying to place it, and now I have. It smells like tobacco and grease—Daddy's smell. Though the odor isn't particularly pleasant, I want to spend some time with it. It brings back good memories of Daddy from when I was a little girl. He used to take me for long drives in the country before times got so hard and we couldn't afford the gas. We both liked to go to abandoned settlements—towns that never made it after the Run. Ghost towns. We'd wander through them, me looking for ghosts, or pretending to. I never told Daddy I was doing this, of course. He's never had patience with such things. He might have gotten angry, prayed me out of my pretending, stopped the drives altogether. I kept quiet. Sometimes I scared myself silly. But with Daddy there, I was never really afraid. Looking back on it, the abandoned ditch-bank camp in San Jose reminds me of those ghost towns. Only the ditch-bank camp was worse, with all those possessions left behind. It was more frightening than any ghost town Daddy ever showed me. The people in those ghost towns took everything with them when they left. They were able to do that. And those ghost towns weren't burned to the ground.

I glance across the street, my attention caught by an approaching car. Three cars. Police cars, all. A brand-new Ford pulls up beside them now. The men step out of their cars—the uniformed officers, and the men inside the Ford, who wear plain, professional suits. I recognize the look of these men. These are the kind of men who oversaw the deportations I witnessed.

I want Thomas to see this. I consider going into the doctor's office and getting him. But given the necessity and importance to Thomas of whatever's going on in there, I don't want to interrupt his appointment. So I do the watching on my own.

They don't stay long. After five minutes or so, the officials return to their Ford. One ducks inside the car, then immediately pops back out; he returns to the police officers, bearing what look to be fliers. He hands the fliers over to the officers, and then they all drive away in various directions.

Thomas emerges from the doctor's soon after their departure. To my surprise, he's wearing his . . . What did he call it? Device. Funny word. Maybe it gets tiring after a while for him to talk about it—though for me, it's gotten easier. Prosthesis, wooden leg, device—whatever it's called, it's part of life now. I don't think about the fact that he wears one. Unless, of course, he gets hurt.

Using his crutches, he comes to the truck. “Almost as good as new,” he says, rapping his knuckles against his prosthesis. He cuts me a glance. “Knock on wood.”