Stories from the Life of a Migrant Child (4 page)

Doña María gently rubbed Torito's stomach with her bony right hand. As soon as she pressed down on it, he groaned and started to cry. She turned him over on his stomach and with her left hand pulled up a fold of skin from his back and then released it. After doing this three times, she flipped him over on his back and asked Mamá to bring her three eggs. She cracked the eggs on his stomach and massaged him gently with them. "The eggs will draw out his sickness," she said confidently. Torito stopped crying. Mamá seemed relieved, but I was not. There was something about
la curandera
that made me nervous.

Moments after Doña María left, just as we were getting ready for bed, Torito started moaning. Then he suddenly stopped. There was dead silence. We all looked at each other and rushed to his side. He was as stiff as a board and had stopped breathing. His eyes were rolled back. Mamá started weeping. Like Roberto and Trampita, I cried too. I felt very scared.
Perhaps Doña María made him worse,
I thought.

Papá quickly picked up Torito, wrapped him in a blanket, and yelled, "
¡Vieja, vamonos al hospital!
" He and Mamá ran out and took off in the
Carcachita.
Roberto, Trampita, and I stood there, crying.

I thought I would never see Torito again. Frightened and confused I walked outside. It was pitch dark and quiet. I went behind our tent, knelt down on rocky ground, and prayed for Torito for a very long time, until my parents returned.

As soon as I heard the
Carcachita,
I got up from my knees and ran to the front of the tent to meet them. When I saw Mamá and Papá without Torito, I panicked. "Is he dead?" I cried out.

"No, Panchito; calm down," Papá answered. "We left him at the hospital."

"Is he going ... to die?" I stammered.

"No, he isn't," Mamá snapped. "God won't let him. You'll see," she added in a harsh tone. Her face was flushed and her dark eyes were full of tears. I was surprised and puzzled. Why would she be angry at me?

That night I had trouble sleeping, thinking about Torito. Mamá and Papá did not sleep either. I heard Mamá sobbing every time I woke up and saw Papá smoking one cigarette after another.

Early the next morning, Mamá said she was going to drive Papá to work. I thought it was strange because Papá always took the car to go pick strawberries. Besides, it was only five-thirty. Papá did not have to be at work until seven, and it only took a few minutes to get there. "I'll be right back," Mamá said, looking at Roberto and me. "Be sure to take care of Trampita."

I followed my parents to the car and as Mamá was about to get in it, I asked, "Can we go see Torito when you get back?" Mamá closed the car door without answering and sped off. Roberto and I went back in the tent. We did not say a word to each other, but each of us knew what the other was thinking. We knelt side by side on the mattress, in front of the
Virgen de Guadalupe,
and prayed silently.

I was worried and irritated by the time Mamá returned. It was around eleven. "Where were you?" I asked angrily. "I want to go see Torito."

"Only if God wills it," she said sadly, putting her arms around Roberto and me.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Torito is very sick," she replied. "He has a rare disease that may be catching. That's why you can't see him."

"But you went to see him this morning, didn't you?" I responded, raising my voice. "That's why you took so long, right?"

"Sí,
mi'jo,
" she answered, "but they won't let children in to see him. You can see him when he comes home."

"When is that?" Roberto and I asked at the same time.

"Soon, probably," she answered hesitantly.

I had a feeling Mamá was not telling us all she knew.

After preparing supper, Mamá went to pick up Papá from work. When they got home, Papá looked very upset and anxious. I waited for them to talk about Torito, but they did not say a word about him. And as soon as dinner was over, they left for the hospital. After Roberto and I cleaned the dishes, I went outside, behind our tent, and prayed on my knees again. But only for a little while. I hurried inside when I heard Doña María chanting next door.

When Papá and Mamá returned from the hospital, Mamá's arms were empty. Roberto and I looked at each other in disappointment. "Torito is a little better, but we can't bring him home until tomorrow," she said, teary-eyed and with a feigned smile. Then taking a deep breath, and looking at Roberto, Trampita, and me, she continued, "We have to pray to the
Santo Niño de Atocha
because—"

"Yes," Papá interrupted, taking out his wallet and pulling out a tattered holy card. "Your Mamá and I have made a promise to
el Santo Niño
." Then holding the card in the palm of his right hand and looking at it, he continued, "We'll pray to him every day, for a whole year, if Torito gets well."

Papá then took a pin from a small tin box where Mamá kept her sewing things and pinned the card to the canvas wall, above the mattress, next to the picture of the
Virgen de Guadalupe.

On the holy card was a picture of the little Jesus of Atocha sitting on a high wooden chair. He wore sandals, a blue cloak, a short, brown cape, and a brimmed hat to match. In his right hand he carried a basket and in his left hand a wooden staff.

We all knelt in front of the
Santo Niño
to pray. Mamá always prayed to him whenever one of us got sick because she said the Holy Child Jesus took care of poor and sick people, especially children. The late hour and the repetition of the prayers made me sleepy.

That night I dreamed about the
Santo Niño de Atocha.
I was behind our tent, praying on my knees in front of the baby Jesus holy card. Suddenly the
Santo Niño
came alive. He stood up from his chair and floated in the air, carrying the basket. He glided to where I was and placed the basket at my feet and pointed to it. Out of the basket emerged hundreds of tiny white butterflies. They formed themselves into a pair of wings, lifting me and carrying me away over Tent City and setting me down next to my Torito, who lay in the middle of a lush-green alfalfa field. In the dream I awoke and looked at the prayer card. Torito was in it, sitting in the high chair, dressed as the
Santo Niño de Atocha.

The next morning, when I told Mamá about my dream, she decided to make Torito an outfit, just like the one the
Santo Niño de Atocha
was wearing in the picture prayer card. Instead of taking a nap after she made the lunches, she started sewing a cloak using the fabric from one of her blue dresses. She finished it that evening, just in time to go get Torito from the hospital.

Later that night, when Mamá and Papá returned with Torito from the hospital, he was wearing the blue cloak Mamá had made him, but he did not look like the
Santo Niño
in the holy card. Torito was pale and skinny. He moaned when I tickled him. "Mamá, is Torito still sick?" I asked.

"Yes,
mi'jo,
" she responded, "that's why we have to keep on praying."

"But didn't the doctor take care of him?"

Mamá turned her back to me and did not respond. I looked at Papá, who was pacing up and down, wringing his hands. After a long moment of silence, he said, "Remember, we have to keep our promise and pray to
el Santo Niño
every day, for a whole year."

That night, and every night for an entire year, we all prayed to
el Santo Niño de Atocha
as we followed the crops from place to place. During that time, Mamá dressed Torito in the blue cloak and only took it off when it needed to be washed.

On August 17, the day we completed the promise to
el Santo Niño,
we all gathered around Torito, who sat on Mamá's lap. His chubby, rosy cheeks made him look like a cherub.

"I have something to tell you," Mamá said teary-eyed as she took off his cloak. "When we took Torito to the hospital, the doctor told us my son would die because we had waited too long to take him there. He said it would take a miracle for him to live. I didn't want to believe him," she continued, gaining strength as she talked. "But he was right. It took a miracle."

It always rained a lot in Corcoran during the cotton season, but that year it rained more than usual. No sooner had we arrived from Fowler, where we had picked grapes, than it started to pour. Our cabin was one of several farm-worker shacks lined up in a row, behind which ran a small creek.

There was not a lot to do when it rained. We stayed indoors telling ghost stories we had heard from other migrant workers. We also played guessing games. When I got tired of listening to the same stories told many times before, I watched our neighbor's goldfish. From our window I could see into the next cabin, where a fishbowl sat on a small table. I spent hours glued to our window, watching the goldfish glide in slow motion, stirring the jade green plants with its delicate fins. Mamá enjoyed watching it too. She called it
el Angel de Oro.

Papá passed most of his time worrying. He smoked one cigarette after another and complained about the rain because we could not pick the cotton when it was wet. "If this rain doesn't stop we'll have to leave and find work somewhere else," he repeated, pacing up and down the floor. Even the thought of rain gave him a headache. Luckily for me, I got to go to school the following week.

Monday morning, after getting Mamá's blessing, I headed for school, which was only about a mile from the cotton labor camp. I could see it from where we lived. On the way, I met Miguelito, who lived in the same labor camp. He was two years older than I and had started school for the first time that year a month earlier, in October. He took me to the main office and translated into Spanish some of the questions the principal asked me. Before I was led to my third-grade class, Miguelito and I agreed to meet on the playground after school and walk home together.

Miguelito was already waiting for me when I got to the playground. We started walking toward the labor camp, following the same route we had taken that morning. The path was muddy and full of puddles, just like the school playground. Miguelito and I imagined the puddles were lakes and we pretended to be giants stepping over them. We counted out loud the number of lakes we stepped over, trying to outdo each other. Miguelito had longer legs than I did, but I kept up with him until I slipped and lost my balance. My right foot landed right in one of the puddles, splashing muddy water on my clean overalls and on Miguelito. The cardboard inside my shoe got soggy and started to fall apart. Once I collected myself, Miguelito and I began laughing. We continued walking, but every time we looked at each other, we would start laughing again. This went on until we arrived at the labor camp.

As we approached our cabin, I knew no one was home because our
Carcachita,
our old jalopy, was not parked in front. "Want to come in?" I asked.

"I have to go home first," he answered. "I'll come back in a little while."

"I'll be in the back by the creek," I said. "Don't forget, our cabin is number ten."

"I live ten cabins down from you, number twenty," Miguelito replied cheerfully.

I went inside our cabin. It was cold and quiet. I went over to our window to look at our neighbor's goldfish. I watched it swim back and forth. I
wonder if he gets lonely,
I thought to myself. I then went out behind our cabin, and sat on a rock by the edge of the creek. I listened to the water murmur and watched the little gray fish play with each other. The current gently tugged at the plants growing in the water. I picked up some pebbles and tossed them in one at a time, trying not to hit the fish.

"What are you doing?" asked Miguelito, coming up behind me and making me jump.

"I am just watching the little fish while I wait for my parents to get back from work."

"Do you want to catch some?"

"Catch what?" I asked.

"Fish,
tonto,
" he replied, chuckling.

Before I could answer, he jumped up like a grasshopper, ran over to a small pepper tree that was a few yards away, and yanked off two branches. "These are our fishing poles," he said excitedly, handing one over to me. "Tomorrow I'll bring the other stuff and we'll finish making them."

That night it poured again, and in the morning the rain turned to drizzle. I put my hat on and walked out the door, hoping to meet Miguelito so we could walk to school together. I could not wait to catch fish with him in the afternoon, but he did not show up, and I did not see him at school all day. When I returned home from school that afternoon, I went to see if he was waiting for me by the creek. He was not there either. Then I remembered his cabin number. I hurried to number twenty and knocked on the door. No one answered. I went around to the side of the cabin and peeked through the window. The cabin was completely empty. My heart sank into my stomach. Slowly I walked home, feeling a lump in my throat. I heard Miguelito's laugh in my head and thought about our game with the puddles. When I got home I stood by our window and stared at our neighbor's goldfish for the longest time. Finally my family arrived. They had spent all day driving around looking for work.

It rained so much that night that the creek flooded into the dirt streets, making the cabins look like they floated on a lake. Then, days later, when the clouds disappeared and the sun emerged, the lake began to split into hundreds of small puddles throughout the labor camp.

One day, on my way home from school, I discovered little gray fish in the puddles. I had no idea how they got there, but I noticed that in the smaller puddles the fish were dying. The mud was suffocating them. As I gazed at the dead fish, the image of the goldfish flashed in my mind. I quickly ran to our cabin and got the empty Hills Brothers coffee can. I filled it with water and began picking up the dying fish from the mud puddles, putting them in the can, and dumping them in the creek. After a couple of hours, I was exhausted. There were too many and I could not work fast enough to save them all. I prayed for rain, but the sun kept beating down, turning the puddles into mud.