Delia’s Crossing (4 page)

I sobbed softly, but for the most part, I think I was still too much in shock to cry my heart out. All I wanted was for it to end. The silence that followed us afterward was as deep and as hollow as the tunnel to hell. That’s what
mi abuela
told me.

My departure for America was to be immediate. It was almost as if my grandmother were afraid my aunt might have second thoughts and decide not to take me.

I pleaded softly for her to reconsider. All of her siblings were gone now, her other sons working in America. I was the closest family she had left to be beside her, and she was my closest, too, I realized.

“You would have no chance here, Delia. You would grow old quickly, as I did, maybe even more quickly. Your parents wouldn’t want this. Think of all the men and women who would love to have your opportunity. You will eventually become a citizen of the United States! You will get a better education and everything you need to stay healthy and strong, and you know how much your mother wanted you to have an education. Maybe you will go to a college, too.”

“But Isabela was not good to us, Abuela.”

“What she was she was. What she is she is now,” she replied, and waved her right forefinger. “Remember, Delia,
hasta el diablo fué un ángel en sus comienzos.
Even the devil was an angel when he began. It’s not too late to change.”

I thought she recited it all more to convince herself than to convince me, or perhaps to make herself feel better about her inability to keep me with her. I couldn’t continue to contradict her, for fear I would make her feel even more terrible than she already felt. There was nothing to do but nod and smile and accept.

“You will return to visit soon,” she continued. “You will come back in fancy clothes and in a fancy car. Everyone will be envious of you.”

I turned away so she wouldn’t see my face, the great pain and the terrible doubt. I looked down at the small suitcase we had packed for my trip. The fastener no longer worked. It had to be tied with one of my father’s old belts.

Señor Orozco had delivered my aunt’s warning about bringing along lice, and that had frightened us into limiting what I was to take. I packed only my newest garments, and my grandmother had washed them even though they did not need to be washed. What I had wouldn’t have filled more than two suitcases anyway.

“I’m sure she means to buy you many new things,” my grandmother told me. “She didn’t intend to be nasty about lice. It’s simply that she wouldn’t let you wear old clothes in her beautiful new
hacienda.
You are her niece. She won’t want you to look any worse than her own children. Isabela was always concerned about the way she looked. Appearances are very important to her.”

I glanced at
mi abuela.
She was struggling so to make my future look rosy. I knew she didn’t believe these things. She, like most everyone else, was not approving of Isabela’s worship of wealth.

“I don’t care about beautiful clothes,” I said.

“Oh, sure you do. You will. Why shouldn’t you? You are a beautiful young woman, the most beautiful in our family on both sides. Would you put a dirty, old, ugly frame around a beautiful painting? No.”

She made me smile.

“I’m not a beautiful painting, Abuela Anabela.”

“
Sí,
you are, God’s beautiful painting,” she said, stroking my face and smiling. “Don’t fill your heart with too much pride, but don’t regret yourself,” she advised, and kissed me on the forehead.

And then she shook her head and muttered to herself. “I lived too long to have lived to see this.”

Finally, she went off to be alone, shed her tears, and talk to God.

I sat waiting and wondering why all of this had happened. What had we done to bring such tragedy down upon us? Father Martinez’s explanations in church seemed hollow and inadequate to me. God had brought them to his bosom? Why would God want to take my parents from me? Why would he be so selfish? I would have to go elsewhere to understand, I thought, and I might spend my whole life getting there.

The car sent for me arrived surprisingly early in the morning the next day. I didn’t remember my aunt’s car when she came to her mother’s funeral as well as some of the other people in the village remembered it, but I couldn’t imagine a more luxurious-looking or bigger automobile. She had hired the driver and the car out of Mexico City. Everyone who saw it approaching came out to watch the driver, who was in a uniform and cap, take my small bag and put it into the cavernous trunk, where it looked about as insignificant as it could, like one pea on a plate. It didn’t occur to me until that very moment how quickly it was all happening.
Mi tía
Isabela had practically pounced on me the moment the news had arrived in Palm Springs, California. Again I wondered, was that good? Why had she decided so quickly?

There was no longer any time to think about it.
Mi abuela
Anabela followed me out to hug me and say a prayer over me. She kissed me and made me promise to say my prayers every night, for myself, yes, but for my poor departed parents’ souls as well.

“And for you,” I added.

“
Sí, y para mí,
” she said, smiling. “You will do well, Delia. You have a heart big enough for many who need love. I am sorry I can give you nothing more than my prayers.”

“It’s enough,” I said, holding back my tears.

I looked at our house, our stubble of grass in front, and the old fountain. I was sure it wasn’t much of anything compared with where I was going, but it was all I knew as home. In this poor house, we had laughed and cried, eaten our meals, and slept through our dreams. We had celebrated our birthdays and holidays and talked into the night, with me mostly listening and my parents and grandmother remembering. It was through them that I had grown to know my extended family and my personal heritage, and now that was all being left behind.

I might as well be shot into outer space, I thought when I turned to get into the limousine. Where I was going was just as far away as a distant planet, not in miles so much as in customs, language, and lifestyle. Without my ties to my family here, I would be like someone floating through space, untethered to anything, alone, hoping to land on a warm star.

Grandmother Anabela kissed me and held me tightly for a moment, before she sighed deeply and let me go.

“No more good-byes,” she said, and urged me to get into the limousine.

I paused to look at our neighbors and friends. I could see the pity for me in their faces, even though I was getting into this expensive automobile and heading for the United States, a world of endless promise and wealth, from which so many
norteños
sent back remittances that were enough to make eyes bulge and put smiles on hungry faces of despair. The committees of
los norteños
sent back funds that helped restore our church and plaza, repair roads and sewers, and make our village more livable. The United States was a well of opportunity into which I would have the privilege of dipping my hands.

And yet they didn’t envy me. They saw how lost and alone I was, and despite their own poverty and limited futures, they would not trade places with me. In fact, they stepped back into their doorways or into the shadows, as if to avoid being contaminated by the tragedy that had befallen me. Some wouldn’t even wave good-bye. Some wouldn’t even nod. They stared, and some crossed themselves and moved closer to their loved ones.

Good-bye, Delia,
I could hear them think.
Adiós pequeña muchacha. Vaya con Dios.

I got into the limousine. The driver, who had not introduced himself and who barely looked at me with any interest, closed the door. I moved quickly to the window, already feeling like someone being locked away from all she loved and knew.
Mi abuela
Anabela smiled and pressed her right hand to her heart. She nodded and looked up to mutter a prayer.

I put my fingers against the window, as if I could somehow still touch her.

“Don’t smudge up the windows,” the driver muttered sharply. I pulled my hand away instantly.

The limousine started away, its tires unhappy about the potholes deepened by last evening’s downpour. The broken street bounced and tossed the automobile as if it were a toy. The driver cursed under his breath and then accelerated, spitting up some dirt behind us, enough to create a cloud of dust, dust through which
mi abuela
Anabela grew smaller and smaller, until she was gone, and I was carried off and away, my tears as hot as tea streaming down my cheeks.

We drove on, the scenery turning into liquid and floating by as the road got better and the driver could accelerate even more. He didn’t speak or ask me any questions to pass the time. He listened to his radio as if he were all by himself. It was the way I felt. Why not him?

In a little more than one hour, I was traveling through places I had never been. Looking back, I saw nothing familiar. It was truly as if God had snapped his fingers, and
poof,
like magic, my life and my world were gone.

A
t no point during my journey was my aunt there to greet me. Whatever her reasons for not coming to the funerals, I nevertheless kept anticipating her, envisioning her standing there with my two cousins, all of them anxious about meeting me. After all, I was as much a stranger to them as they were to me, but I hoped they were eager to help me recover from such a catastrophic blow. I imagined their eyes would be filled with pity, and they would overwhelm me with their kindness and warm welcome.

Perhaps my cousin Sophia, close to my age, would see me more as a sister than a cousin. Since we were close in age, maybe we were close to the same size. We would share so much. After all, I had been an only child and had no brothers and sisters, even though my parents had tried to have more children. I longed for such a sister, someone with whom I could trust my intimate thoughts and feelings and share the confusion and wonder that came with growing up. I would have so much to tell her about our Mexican heritage, and she would have tons to tell me about Palm Springs and the United States. Eventually, I would have to learn more English, of course. I knew some, but I was sure there were dozens of expressions that would confuse me at first. It would be necessary, but also it would be fun to learn them.

I also looked forward to hearing music and going to movies and parties like the ones I occasionally saw on television or heard about from people who had been in the States. They described working at fiestas with more food than could feed our village for a week. The people were dressed like royalty, with diamonds glittering and gold dangling from their necks and wrists. There was lots of live music. I was told that every party, no matter how small the reason, was like a Mexican wedding. There was such abundance. Dogs and cats in America ate better than people ate in most underdeveloped countries.

Thinking about entering such a world both frightened and excited me. How long would it take for me to get used to it? Would I ever get used to it? I would have so much compared to what I did have. How soon would I be able to send things to
mi abuela
Anabela? Would I indeed have a bedroom almost as big as our
casa
? And would there be a wardrobe of new clothing awaiting me in that bedroom?

I tried to shoo away all of these hopeful fantasies, feeling terribly guilty about imagining anything wonderful and good resulting from my parents’ unfortunate deaths, but it was hard not to think about all of it as I traveled from the limousine to the airplane and then another limousine.

I pretended that I had been in an airplane before, in order to bolster my own courage, but anyone could see both my fear and my wonder. The flight attendant kept looking at me, smiling, and asking me if I was all right. Maybe I looked as if I would throw up. My stomach was doing flip-flops. I was given the paperwork to show at customs in Houston, Texas, but the scrutinizing eyes made me so nervous I was sure I looked as if I were smuggling in something illegal. My bag was searched. I boarded my second flight, which was in a smaller plane. No one paid much attention to me this time, and the gentleman beside me slept almost the whole trip.

When we arrived at the Palm Springs airport, I saw my name on a big card being held by a stout-looking, somewhat gray-haired man in a uniform even more impressive than the one worn by the driver who had picked me up in Mexico. This man had gold epaulets on his shoulders and wore white gloves.

“
Soy
Delia Yebarra,” I said, approaching him. I looked past him, hoping to see my aunt and cousins waiting or sitting in the seats behind him.

“How many bags you got?” he asked gruffly.

I shook my head. I didn’t understand. Bags? Why did he want to know about bags?

“Bags, suitcases!” he practically screamed at me, and then pretended to hold one.

“Oh.
Uno,
” I said, holding up one finger.

“Good. C’mon,” he said, gesturing, and led me to the baggage carousels, where we waited for my small suitcase to come around.

He looked at me and squinted. He had big, pecan-brown eyes and a face that looked chiseled out of granite, the lines cut deeply and sharply around the corners of his mouth and at his eyes. He even had lines cut into his chin. I imagined his face suddenly shattering.

“
No sabe usted hablar inglés
?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Jesus, you don’t speak any English at all?”

“
Poco,
” I said, afraid to say I spoke or understood more. Whoever spoke to me would expect me then to understand. I thought about reciting some of the words I did know, but he grimaced and shook his head.

“Yeah, a little. Little good that will do you with Mrs. Dallas.”

I perked up at the sound of my aunt’s name and looked around again.

“Don’t worry. She ain’t here.
No aquí,
” he said. “Like she would come to an airport to greet anyone,” he muttered.

He pounced on my bag when I pointed to it, practically ripping the handle off when he grasped it.

“It’s amazing this piece of junk lasted,” he said, tugging on my father’s belt.

I knew he was making fun of my suitcase. I wanted to explain. After all, none of us ever traveled in an airplane, and whenever we did go on a trip, we put things in cartons. Before I could say a word, however, he turned quickly to march out of the airport. I had to walk very quickly to keep up with him. He led me to the parking lot, where a car that looked as if it were made of gold was parked. Later, I would learn it was a Rolls-Royce. The backseat was even more roomy than the limousine, but it also looked spanking new, not a smudge or anything on the windows or seats.

As we drove away from the airport and headed for my aunt’s
hacienda,
my face was practically glued to the window. I was amazed at how well kept and new everything looked. The streets were so wide, and there were no potholes and cracks. Everyone seemed to be driving a brand-new automobile, too. The palm trees, varieties of bougainvillea, flowers, and even the grass all looked unreal. The mountains in the distance seemed more like scenery built for a movie.

When we reached a side street and I saw gardeners working, I suddenly became very homesick. They paused in their work to look at us as we passed by, and I thought they surely thought I was some rich American girl safe in her fishbowl. If they only knew who I was and where I had just come from and why, they wouldn’t even bother turning in my direction.

Of course, I was prepared to see a big house with a nice lawn, but I had no idea my aunt really lived in a palace, or at least what looked to me like a palace. There was a very tall chocolate-colored entry gate with elaborate scrolling that had to be opened first for us to enter the property. It swung in slowly, as slowly as the gates of heaven. I imagined the sound of trumpets.

The driveway to the main house seemed as long as the road that had brought us from the airport. To the left of the main house were two smaller buildings, and farther in the rear I saw tennis courts and a very large swimming pool, as large as, if not larger than, most hotel pools I had seen. A small army of gardeners was cutting grass, pruning bushes, and trimming trees. Just to the right of the house was a four-car garage, but the driver, who had yet to tell me his name, stopped at the front of the main house.

“This is it,” he said. “
Vámanos.
Out.” He waved, and I opened the door while he went around to the trunk to get my suitcase.

I waited, looking up at the grand front door. It looked as if it were made of copper or brass, and it had the emblem of a lion embossed on its surface.

The driver charged past me to the door and pressed the buzzer. He looked back at me and shook his head. Did he pity me or disapprove of me? Why was he so annoyed? Had he been pulled away from some far more important work?

An elderly lady in a maid’s uniform, not much taller than I, opened the door.

“Here she is, Mrs. Rosario,” the driver told her, and nodded at me. “She don’t speak much English at all,” he added.

Mrs. Rosario nodded. She had soft eyes sunk in a round face with plump cheeks and a small mouth with puckered lips. Her complexion wasn’t quite as dark as mine, and there were strands of gray woven through her tightly brushed black hair pinned back into a bun. A small silver cross rested just below the base of her throat.

“
Venga adentro,
” she told me, and stepped back.

The driver handed me my suitcase, and I entered the grand
hacienda.
Señora Rosario closed the door, and I stood there gaping at everything. There were statues of two half-naked African women facing each other, with large, colorful tapestries above each that nearly reached the high dome ceiling. The floor was dark marble with white spots that looked like milk dripped over it. It led down a short stairway to a living room the size of our
casa
back in Mexico, if not bigger. The ceiling was as high as a church ceiling, and there were embossed elephants, birds, and tigers. I couldn’t drink it all in quickly enough.

All of the furniture must have been built for a family of mythological giants, I thought. The sofas were long and thick, and there were oversized chairs that I was sure would swallow me whole if I sat on them. There was a very long and wide center table with carvings in its wood frame and other matching marble tables beside the chairs and sofa.

Artwork of every kind was everywhere I looked, from grand paintings of what I imagined were scenes of world-famous cities to busts on pedestals, more tapestries and glass-doored armoires filled with crystal figures, as well as other kinds of collectibles. Everything appeared sparkling clean and new.

Large area rugs were set over the travertine floors. Across the room were tall glass doors that opened to a grand Spanish tiled patio. I could see a large pink fountain, more statuary, and pretty turquoise, red, and yellow outdoor furnishings. The patio led down to a walkway through gardens, more fountains, and beautiful beds of flowers. I felt certain that the president of Mexico didn’t live any better or in a grander
casa
with as many servants. When people back in my village said Americans lived like kings and queens, they were surely thinking of people like
mi tía
Isabela.

“Put your suitcase against the wall,” Señora Rosario told me, and nodded to my right. She spoke in fluent Spanish. “And go sit on the sofa on your left and wait. Don’t touch anything. Señora Dallas will be here soon.”

I did what she asked and then walked into the living room. The richness of everything and the way everything glittered and sparkled made me feel as if I should tiptoe and be extra gentle. As I had envisioned, when I sat on the sofa, I felt lost, as if I could drown in gold. Señora Rosario watched me absorbing the richness and wealth. Finally, she softened her lips. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was on its way. I wondered if she had reacted in a similar way when she first had entered this
hacienda.

“
Como se llama
?” she asked.

“Delia,” I told her.

“Señora Dallas
quisiera que usted me llama
Señora Rosario, but,” she added, still in Spanish, “when we’re alone, you can call me Alita, but never, never in front of Señora Dallas,” she emphasized.

“It’s so beautiful here,” I told her.

She nodded like someone used to hearing it. “It’s all very expensive. Almost everything is imported from one place or another.”

“It’s like a museum.”

She smiled fully this time but then quickly erased it.

“Don’t say that to Señora Dallas. She thinks it’s a home.”

She told me she was going to let
mi tía
Isabela know I had arrived and left to do so.

I sat stiffly, afraid to move or touch anything. I was so nervous that I felt faint. When would I meet my cousins? I wondered. Judging from all of this, my room must be as beautiful and as big as Abuela Anabela predicted. Just the thought of having my own room was exciting enough, but looking at all this, I couldn’t help but let my imagination run away with itself.

There was a clock placed in what looked like an oval-shaped piece of black marble on the mantel of the milk-white marble fireplace, a fireplace that appeared never to have held a spark, much less a fire. It was as clean within as any other part of the room.

After more than ten minutes, I let myself relax and sit back on the sofa. It was very quiet. I didn’t even hear anyone’s footsteps. Where was my aunt? Why hadn’t she come quickly? I took a deep breath. The traveling had been more tiring than I had thought it would be, despite the luxury in which I was transported. Tension, fear, and confusion had worn me down. I couldn’t help but close my eyes. I fought back, but my eyelids were determined, and in moments, without my realizing it, I fell asleep.

I woke up to what sounded like someone screaming at me.

“How uncouth, unwashed, and impolite! Look at her!”

I opened my eyes quickly and sat up. Glancing at the clock, I saw that I had been there nearly an hour waiting. The woman I knew had to be my aunt stood before me, her hands on her hips. An older man with thick, well-trimmed gray hair and slightly bulging dark brown eyes stood beside her, smiling at me.