Dream Things True (8 page)

“
A la misa,
” said
T
í
a
Pera.

“Mom,” Isa called out, “you want to go to Mass now? We need to
do
something.”

Ra
ú
l nudged her sharply in the rib. “Shut up, Isa.”

“
Tienes raz
ó
n,
” Alma's dad said. “You are right,
hermana
.
Padre
Pancho will find someone who can help us.
Padre
Pancho will help.”

The parking lot of Santa Cruz was full. Families rushed into the building, heads down and shoulders hunched, as if they were avoiding a heavy rain or a worse catastrophe. Today the church was a safe space, a place where no dark buses would arrive bringing ICE agents in combat gear.

The scene inside was pandemonium. Children darted around the room unattended, while adults sought friends and consulted one another, sharing whatever information they had. Selena clung to Alma's leg and watched, in awe, as Alma's father and aunt disappeared into the mob.

“
Mu
é
vanse adentro del santuario, por favor.
”

Se
ñ
or
Fernandez, who usually served as an usher for this church service, had climbed onto a table at the back of the hallway. He clutched a microphone attached to a portable speaker and begged for order.

“
Por favor, la misa va a comenzar.
”

He repeated a string of gentle commands in Spanish, again and again, but the anxious frenzy did not subside. The hallways continued to pack with people.

“
Se
ñ
ores y se
ñ
oras, si
é
ntense por favor .
”

He jumped down and started pushing people through the doors and into the sanctuary.

Alma watched people jam into the space around her and glance nervously at the large doors that separated them from the dangers of the outside world. She knew what they were feeling because she felt it, too. Suddenly, their own neighborhood seemed threatening, and their lives seemed dangerously precarious. Alma followed the crowd into the pews of the church and knelt beside her brother.

When the scripture readings started, Ra
ú
l took a pencil from the pew in front of him and scribbled on the back of an offering envelope. He showed the envelope to her.

Chino

Javier

Susie?

Xiomara

Loyda

Rafael?

Arturo

They were the names of cousins and friends who were probably working the first shift at the plant.
T
í
a
Dolores's two sons, her niece, Alma's cousins on her mother's side, and her brother's friends from the soccer team. Thank God Chino's wife quit work when her first child was born a few years ago. Otherwise, what would happen to the kids? Alma felt her body slump. She studied the names. Would they all be deported? Then she remembered.

“Loyda quit, remember? She's working with her mother-in-law, at the Chinese restaurant.”

At least there was that. At least he could cross one of them off the list.

Just as
Padre
Pancho was heading to the podium to begin the Gospel reading, Alma's phone vibrated, heavy in her pocket.

ARE YOU IN TROUBLE?

It was Evan again.

Another text came in.

I'M REALLY SORRY IF YOU'RE IN TROUBLE.

Alma's marathon day of yard work and household chores seemed insignificant now, and the month of restrictions that lay ahead was the least of her concerns. Yes, she was in trouble, but this wasn't the sort of trouble Evan had in mind.

It was impossible to concentrate on
Padre
Pancho's homily. A woman wailed in the pew in front of her, and Alma wondered: Could Evan even imagine this scene?

She had to reply, but she had no idea what to say.

A few minutes later, her brother nudged her sternly and glared at the phone. She shoved it back into her pocket, and went forward for the Eucharist. Then
Padre
Pancho began his announcements. Usually, he talked about church picnics and free English classes. Not today. Instead, he explained that he was gathering volunteers to help families find the locations of their loved ones and seeking attorneys to answer their legal questions.

Padre
Pancho offered a final blessing, and the Mass ended.

As Alma walked out of the sanctuary and into the crowded vestibule, someone shoved a blue flyer into her hand. There were so many people mobbing the stairway that she just grasped the paper and pushed her way out into the fresh air.

She and Ra
ú
l stood together, blinded by the bright August light. Her eyes came into focus, and she saw Mrs. King standing among the crowds gathered in the parking lot, waving her arm above her head and calling out Alma's name.

Oh, crap.
Alma had forgotten all about Mrs. King.

SIX

Delete

The air conditioner was running on full blast in Mrs. King's Buick. Alma got in without saying a word and sank into the velveteen seat. She closed her eyes and let the cool air stream across her face.

“My heavens, that's a popular place to be on Sunday mornings,” Mrs. King announced, shifting the sedan into reverse.

“Yeah,” said Alma. “It's always packed.”

Mrs. King drove slowly past two sobbing women locked in a tight embrace.

“Is it always so … emotional?”

Should Alma tell her and risk disapproval? She had never talked to Mrs. King about her family's legal status—or lack of status—in the United States. Would she still want to help? Or would she give up on Alma and find a more practical project?

“Did somethin' happen, sweetheart? You look a little shocked.”

“Yes, ma'am. I mean, uh, something happened.”

“Well? Go on.”

“You know the big Silver Ribbon plant up on the north side of town?”

“
Everyone
in town knows the Silver Ribbon plant.”

“There was a raid, and they took people away. In buses.”

“Who exactly do you mean by ‘they'?”

“ICE. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. A lot of people were working there with false papers, you know?”

“Yes, Alma. I know.”

“Including my aunt and some of my cousins.”

Mrs. King reached over and took Alma's hand. “Oh, Alma. I'm so sorry.”

“Yeah,” Alma said. “Me, too.”

Mrs. King pulled into the parking lot of a Krispy Kreme, and they got out of the car.

“What will happen?” Mrs. King asked.

“They'll get deported. It's happening all over the country.” Alma said.

“Just for trying to work?”

“Most people think it's against the law just to
be
here illegally, but it's not,” Alma replied. “I mean it's not a
crime
. But the people who are working at Silver Ribbon, they're using false identities. You know, fake Social Security numbers.”

“And that's a crime,” Mrs. King said.

“Yeah,” Alma replied. “A serious one.”

“What will your aunt and cousins do?” Mrs. King asked.

“I don't know,” Alma said. “They're definitely not going to find a job in my family's hometown. There's no work there. Maybe they'll go work in the city.”

“I'm so sorry,” Mrs. King said.

Alma shrugged as they walked into the shop and stared at an array of sweets. Mrs. King pointed to two cream-filled doughnuts glazed in chocolate. Alma ordered black coffee, and they sat down in a booth.

“Alma, we can hold off on discussing your future,” Mrs. King said. “I mean, I understand that you're shaken.”

She paused to take a sip of her tea.

“But I'd like to go on and dive in,” Mrs. King said. “It just might help you feel better.” She pulled a thick envelope from her purse. “I have some scholarship opportunities I want to share with you.”

Alma figured she might as well just get it over with. She leaned forward and spoke quietly.

“Mrs. King. I'm so grateful for all that you've done for me, but you need to know something.”

“What is it, Alma?”

“I'm not legal. So there's no point. I really don't have any way to get legal status. Believe me, I have researched it.”

“Good Lord have mercy, Alma. Stop talking such nonsense. I already knew—or I figured, at least—that you were undocumented. That doesn't mean we quit trying, child.”

“It doesn't?”

“Heavens, no. It's just another challenge, and you know I love a challenge.”

“Really?”

“Of course, really,” Mrs. King said, shaking her head. “Silly child. Some scholarships are available to students regardless of their
status
.”

“OK, then,” Alma replied, feeling her first glimmer of light all day. “Let's see what you've got for me.”

While Mrs. King separated stacks of paper into neat piles, Alma thought back to the day she learned that she wasn't
in status
—that she was a person who was here but not welcome, embedded in this place but also somehow apart from it. It was middle school; she was twelve and already suffering the disorientation of puberty. At first, she didn't understand why her father kept brushing aside Ra
ú
l's requests to take him to the Department of Driver Services to get his learner's permit. She assumed her father was just too busy with his work, or that the cost of the permit was too high and Ra
ú
l would need to save more money.

But one afternoon, Ra
ú
l and several of his friends from the soccer team were sprawled across the furniture in the living room, watching a match between Mexico and Honduras. She decided to tease him, hoping that this might erase the awkwardness she felt in the presence of these older boys.

“What, Ra
ú
l?” she taunted. “Your friends all have to come here now since you can't drive?”

“Shut up, Alma,” he said.

“Are you too scared to take the test?”

“Alma,
c
á
llate
,” he said, standing to face her.

“You
are
, aren't you?” Alma said, thrusting her shoulders forward.

With his jaw clenched and his eyes dull, Ra
ú
l reached out and violently wrenched her arm behind her back, dragging her into the bedroom.

Slamming the door shut behind them, Ra
ú
l yelled. “Don't you get it, Alma? We're illegals. I'll never get a license, and neither will you. It doesn't matter how good a driver I am, or how goddamned smart you are. It will never happen.”

Ra
ú
l never yelled at her. He never treated her roughly. He always handled her as if she were one of those porcelain-faced figurines of the Virgin Mary—precious and very fragile.

For a while, she hoped that his fury and frustration were simply the result of Mexico's terrible performance on the soccer field that afternoon. They weren't. She now knew, because fury and frustration had come to live intertwined with hopelessness and despair on her own interior landscape. Alma now understood, too well, exactly how Ra
ú
l felt that afternoon. But Ra
ú
l had let himself be defeated. Two years later, when the scholarship offers dissolved just because he didn't have a Social Security number, he simply settled for the community college. Back then, Alma told herself that she would not let herself be defeated by the absence of nine numbers. But now?

She pushed aside her thoughts and picked up the first stack of information.

“That's a scholarship that the Boys and Girls Club offers,” Mrs. King told her. “It's very competitive, and we need to look into whether you need to be, uh, ‘in status' to be eligible, but I think you've got a great chance. It requires some public speaking. Are you OK with that?”

“What kind of public speaking?” Alma asked.

“The finalists are required to speak at a banquet at the end of their junior year. You'd just be asked to tell a bit about your life and your goals. It's very inspiring.”

“Sure,” Alma said. “I'm up for that.”

She knew there were plenty of things she couldn't tell—things she'd never tell a room full of people—but she would come up with something to say if it meant a four-year college scholarship.

As they made their way through each of the stacks of information, Mrs. King assured Alma that she would research the “problem” of her “status,” and that something would work. Alma had nothing to offer except a whole lot of thank-yous. So she said it, over and over, until they got back into the car.

Mrs. King saw the blue flyer from church, and she picked it up from the floor of the Buick.

“What's this?” she asked.

“I don't know. Someone gave it to me after Mass.”

Alma stared down at the sheet of paper. In bold print it read, “Tell Senator Prentiss to stop separating US citizens from their parents. Ask him to stop the deportations.”

“He's one of our Georgia senators,” Mrs. King said, reading over her shoulder. “Looks like he's also the chair of the Senate Homeland Security Committee.”

She looked up at Alma. “You know he lives right here in Gilberton, don't you? His family goes way back.”

Alma shook her head. She didn't know.

“You should call his office, Alma. Let your voice be heard,” Mrs. King said.

“This flyer says that he needs to hear from his constituents,” Alma said, pointing toward the bold print. “Doesn't that mean voters? I'm not a voter.”