Delia's Crossing Read online

  “Your aunt behaved as if she were a foreigner, too. Her English was surprisingly perfected by now. She was a true norteamericana. Again she acted as if she didn’t understand a word of Spanish and forced Father Martinez to speak in his broken English. All she talked about was her wonderful home, the places she had traveled, her army of servants, her cars and jewels and clothing. She bore no resemblance to the young girl who had grown up here.

  “She left a sizable donation at the church and was gone practically the moment the coffin was lowered into the ground. She spent no time with us and told me the first thing she would do when she returned to Palm Springs was take a bath.

  “‘I’ll have to soak for hours to get this dirt and filth out of my skin,’ she said.

  “We haven’t heard a word directly from her since, but she makes sure we know about her wealth. You have two cousins: Edward, who is two years older than you, and Sophia, who is a month younger than you. She had sent us announcements of their births but no pictures, and she had no pictures to show your father and me when she came to the funeral. She didn’t care to talk about her family with us. She was truly like a stranger. If our mother hadn’t died before, she would have died then.”

  I recalled these conversations with my mother and thought how strange that this sister she had described with such pain was the woman who apparently wanted to claim me, to provide for me and be my legal guardian. If she had no interest in her family all these years, why would she care now? She wasn’t embarrassed about not attending her own father’s funeral, and she wasn’t embarrassed about the way she had behaved at her mother’s funeral, and now she was not embarrassed about not attending her sister and brother-in-law’s, either. Why would ignoring me even after all these family tragedies embarrass or bother her at all? If her own parents and my mother weren’t that important to her, why would I be?

  Was she trying to make amends, repent, and using me as the way to do it?

  Did she regret the way she had behaved, and was she so sorry about it that she wanted to lavish her wealth and kindness on me as part of her redemption?

  Should I be more grateful and happy about the possibilities than sad and afraid?

  What awaited me?

  And what about my cousins? I hated to think of anything good coming out of my parents’ deaths. No matter what that good was or how much better off I might be, I would never be happy knowing why I had it all, but wasn’t it good to get to know them and for them to know me?

  Right now, I couldn’t think about it. For our small village, the prospect of a double funeral draped the streets and houses in a dark, dreary shadow, even though the March sun was shining brightly. The very sight of the two coffins side by side in the church was devastating. It was difficult for many, not only me, to believe this was actually happening, that my young and beautiful parents were gone in seconds, their lives snuffed out like two candles. People were either hypnotized by the sight or avoided looking and kept their heads bowed. Even the babies on their mothers’ hips looked subdued and mesmerized by the deeply mournful atmosphere.

  Mi abuela clung to me almost as tightly as I clung to her. She had seen much sorrow in her life. Besides her own parents, she had lost a younger brother in a farm accident with an overturned tractor. He was barely fifteen. She told me her father never stood or walked straight after that.

  “He looked like a broken corn stalk, his shoulders turned inward under the weight of his great grief.”

  Everything stopped in our village for my parents’ funeral. A parade of mourners followed the coffins through the village in a procession that seemed it would take the rest of my life. The sky should be gray, I thought. The world shouldn’t look so bright, but the heavens had already shed all the tears the night before in a downpour that created streams carving grooves everywhere in the old roads. It was truly as Señora Morales told my grandmother as they went around the puddles. La muerte tuvo que ser quitada. Death had to be washed away.

  And then there was Señora Porres nodding at me, confirming in her mind that the ojo malvado had indeed visited our small village and chosen my parents. Her eyes were full of “I told you so.” She gave me the chills. Perhaps the ojo malvado wasn’t yet satisfied.

  There were even more people at the cemetery than there had been at the church. Some had just gotten off work. Señor Lopez had brought many from his soybean farm to attend, the men fumbling nervously with their hats in their hands, all of the women dressed in black, surrounding us in an inky pool of grief. Everyone looked devastated, not least of all Señor Lopez.

  “They were truly like my own children,” he said. “Mi hijo y mi hija.”

  He gave my grandmother some money and shook his head as if his tongue had died in his mouth. There were no more words, no Band-Aids, no soothing balms, no remedies to help cure this sorrow. Only time would make it possible to continue.

  According to what I had been taught, there were three types of death, and now we had gone through two. The first death occurred when your body stopped functioning and your soul departed. The second occurred when you were interred in the earth. And the third death occurred if and when you were no longer remembered by anyone. I was determined not to permit my parents to suffer this final death.

  “My heart must look like a spider’s web with all the scars that have been carved in it,” my grandmother told her friends. She battled to keep the final death away from so many departed loved ones.

  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.

  3

  Nothing Familiar

  At 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.