Esperanza Rising (9 page)

They were heading down a steep grade on Highway 99 when Isabel said, “Look!”

Esperanza leaned around the side of the truck. As they rounded a curve, it appeared as if the mountains pulled away from each other, like a curtain opening on a stage, revealing the San Joaquin Valley beyond. Flat and spacious, it spread out like a blanket of patchwork fields. Esperanza could see no end to the plots of yellow, brown, and shades of green. The road finally leveled out on the valley floor, and she gazed back at the mountains from where they'd come. They looked like monstrous lions' paws resting at the edge of the ridge.

A big truck blew its horn and Juan pulled over to let it pass, its bed bulging with cantaloupes. Another truck and another did the same. A caravan of trucks passed them, all piled high with the round melons.

On one side of the highway, acres of grapevines stretched out in soldiered rows and swallowed up the arbors. On the other side, fields and fields of dark green cotton plants became a sea of milk-white puffs. This was not a gently rolling landscape like Aguascalientes. For as far as the eye could travel, the land was unbroken by even a hillock. Esperanza felt dizzy looking at the repeated straight rows of grapes and had to turn her head away.

They finally turned east off the main highway. The truck went slower now and Esperanza could see workers in the fields. People waved and Juan honked the truck horn in return. Then he pulled the truck to the side of the road and pointed to a field that had been cleared of its harvest. Dried, rambling vines covered the acre and leftover melons dotted the ground.

“The field markers are down. We can take as many as we can carry,” he called back to them.

Alfonso jumped out, tossed a dozen cantaloupes to Miguel, then stepped up on the running board and slapped the top of the truck for Juan to start again. The melons, warmed by the valley sun, rolled and somersaulted with each bump of the truck.

Two girls walking along the road waved and Juan stopped again. One of them climbed in, a girl about Miguel's age. Her hair was short, black, and curly and her features were sharp and pointed. She leaned back against the side of the truck, her hands behind her head, and she studied Esperanza, her eyes darting at Miguel whenever she could.

“This is Marta,” said Isabel. “She lives at another camp where they pick cotton but it is owned by a different company. Her aunt and uncle live at our camp so she stays with them sometimes.”

“Where are you from?” asked Marta.

“Aguascalientes. El Rancho de las Rosas,” said Esperanza.

“I have never heard of El Rancho de las Rosas. Is that a town?”

“It was the ranch they lived on,” said Isabel proudly, her eyes round and shining. “Esperanza's father owned it and thousands of acres of land. She had lots of servants and beautiful dresses and she went to private school, too. Miguel is my cousin and he and his parents worked for them.”

“So you're a princess who's come to be a peasant? Where's all your finery?”

Esperanza stared at her and said nothing.

“What's the matter, silver spoon stuck in your mouth?” Her voice was smart and biting.

“A fire destroyed everything. She and her mother have come to work, like the rest of us,” said Miguel.

Confused, Isabel added, “Esperanza's nice. Her papa died.”

“Well, my father died, too,” said Marta. “Before he came to this country, he fought in the Mexican revolution against people like her father who owned all the land.”

Esperanza stared back at Marta, unblinking. What had she done to deserve this girl's insults? Through gritted teeth, she said, “You know nothing of my papa. He was a good, kind man who gave much of his property to his servants.”

“That might be so,” said Marta. “But there were plenty of the rich who did not.”

“That was not my papa's fault.”

Isabel pointed to one of the fields, trying to change the subject. “Those people are Filipinos,” she said. “They live in their own camp. And see over there?” She pointed to a field down the road. “Those people are from Oklahoma. They live in Camp 8. There's a Japanese camp, too. We all live separate and work separate. They don't mix us.”

“They don't want us banding together for higher wages or better housing,” said Marta. “The owners think if Mexicans have no hot water, that we won't mind as long as we think no one has any. They don't want us talking to the Okies from Oklahoma or anyone else because we might discover that they have hot water. See?”

“Do the Okies have hot water?” asked Miguel.

“Not yet, but if they get it, we will strike.”

“Strike?” said Miguel. “You mean you will stop working? Don't you need your job?”

“Of course I need my job, but if all the workers join together and refuse to work, we might all get better conditions.”

“Are the conditions so bad?” asked Miguel.

“Some are decent. The place you are going to is one of the better ones. They even have
fiestas
. There's a
jamaica
this Saturday night.”

Isabel turned to Esperanza. “You will love the
jamaicas
. We have them every Saturday night during the summer. There is music and food and dancing. This Saturday is the last for this year because soon it will be too cold.”

Esperanza nodded and tried to pay attention to Isabel. Marta and Miguel talked and grinned back and forth. An unfamiliar feeling was creeping up inside of Esperanza. She wanted to toss Marta out of the moving truck and scold Miguel for even talking to her. Hadn't he seen her rudeness?

She brooded as they rode past miles of young tamarisk trees that seemed to be the border of someone's property.

“Beyond those trees is the Mexican camp,” said Isabel, “where we live.”

Marta smirked at Esperanza and said, “Just so you know. This isn't Mexico. No one will be waiting on you here.” Then she gave her a phony smile and said, “
¿Entiendes?
Understand?”

Esperanza stared back at her in silence. The one thing she did understand was that she did not like Marta.

“W
e're here,” said Isabel, as the truck turned into camp and slowed to a crawl. Esperanza stood up and looked over the cab.

They were in a large clearing, surrounded by grape fields. Row upon row of white wooden cabins formed long lines, connected like bunkhouses. Each cabin had one small window and two wooden steps that led to the door. She couldn't help but think that they weren't even as nice as the servants' cabins in Aguascalientes. They reminded Esperanza more of the horse stalls on the ranch than of a place for people to live. A big mountain loomed in the east, framing one side of the valley.

Marta jumped out and ran toward some girls standing together near the cabins. Esperanza could hear them talking in English, the words hard and clipped, as if they were speaking with sticks in their mouths. They all looked at her and laughed. She turned away, thinking that if Isabel could learn English, then maybe someday she could learn it, too.

A line of flatbed trucks pulled into a clearing and
campesinos
hopped down, home from the fields. People called to one another. Children ran to their fathers yelling, “Papi! Papi!” Esperanza felt a deep pang. She watched and wondered how she would fit into this world.

Isabel pointed to a wooden building off to the side. “That's where they have all the toilets.”

Esperanza cringed as she tried to imagine having no privacy.

“We're lucky,” said Isabel solemnly. “In some camps, we had to go in ditches.”

Esperanza looked down at her, swallowed, and nodded, suddenly thankful for something.

A foreman came over and shook hands with Juan and Alfonso and pointed to the cabin in front of the truck. The women got out, took the babies, and helped Miguel with the bags.

Mama and Esperanza walked into the cabin. It had two small rooms. One half of the front room was the kitchen with a stove, sink, and counter, and a table and chairs. A pile of wood waited near the stove. Across the room was a mattress on the floor. The back room had another mattress big enough for two people and a tiny cot. In between sat a wooden fruit crate, to be used as a night table, its sides touching each bed. Above was another small window.

Mama looked around and then gave Esperanza a weak smile.

“Is this our cabin or Hortensia's and Alfonso's?” asked Esperanza, hoping that hers and Mama's might be better.

“We are all together in this cabin,” said Mama.

“Mama, we can't possibly all fit!”

“Esperanza, they will only give one cabin for each man with a family. There is no housing for single women. This is a family camp so we must have a male head of household to live and work here. And that is Alfonso.” Mama sank to the bed. Her voice sounded tired. “He has told them we are his cousins and if anyone asks us, we must say it's true. Otherwise we cannot stay. We are next door to Juan and Josefina so we can adjust the sleeping arrangements. Miguel will sleep next door with them and the babies. And Isabel will sleep here with Alfonso, Hortensia, and us.”

Miguel came in and set down their valises, then left. Esperanza could hear Alfonso and Hortensia in the next room, talking about the camp office.

Mama got up to unpack and began to sing.

Esperanza felt anger crawling up her throat. “Mama, we are living like horses! How can you sing? How can you be happy? We don't even have a room to call our own.”

The talking suddenly stopped in the other room.

Mama gave Esperanza a long, hard look. She calmly walked over and shut the door to the small room.

“Sit down,” she said.

Esperanza sat on the tiny cot, its springs screeching.

Mama sat on the bed opposite her, their knees almost touching. “Esperanza, if we had stayed in Mexico and I had married Tío Luis, we would have had one choice. To be apart and miserable. Here, we have two choices. To be together and miserable or to be together and happy.
Mija,
we have each other and Abuelita will come. How would she want you to behave? I choose to be happy. So which will you choose?”

She knew what Mama wanted to hear. “Happy,” she said quietly.

“Do you know how lucky we are, Esperanza? Many people come to this valley and wait months for a job. Juan went to a lot of trouble to make sure we had this cabin waiting for us when we got here. Please be grateful for the favors bestowed upon us.” Mama bent over and kissed her, then left the room.

Esperanza laid down on the cot.

A few minutes later, Isabel came in and sat on the bed. “Will you tell me what it was like to be so very rich?”

She looked at Isabel, her eyes anticipating some wonderful story.

Esperanza was quiet for a moment, clinging to one possible thought.

Then she said, “I am still rich, Isabel. We will only be here until Abuelita is well enough to travel. Then she will come with her money and we will buy a big house. A house that Papa would have been proud for us to live in. Maybe we will buy two houses so that Hortensia, Alfonso, and Miguel can live in one and work for us again. And you can visit us, Isabel. You see, this is only temporary. We will not be here for long.”

“¿De veras?”
asked Isabel.

“Yes, it is the truth,” said Esperanza, staring at the ceiling that someone had covered with newspaper and cardboard. “My papa would never have wanted us to live in a place like this.” She closed her eyes and heard Isabel tiptoe out of the room and shut the door.

The weariness from the days of travel flooded over her, and her mind wandered from people peeing in ditches, to Marta's rudeness, to the horse stalls at El Rancho de las Rosas.

How could she be happy or grateful when she had never been more miserable in her life?

When Esperanza opened her eyes again, it was almost light and she heard Mama, Hortensia, and Alfonso talking in the next room. She had slept through dinner and the entire night. She smelled
café
and
chorizo
. The coffee and sausage made her stomach growl and she tried to remember when she had last eaten. Isabel was still asleep in the bed next to hers so Esperanza quietly pulled on a long wrinkled skirt and white blouse. She brushed her hair and went into the other room.