“Cousin Mabel writes that her son, Kevin Thomas, has been assigned to a Navy yard out here. Says she and her husband are likely to up and move out here, just to be close to their son.”
Amy spoke of her family in Oklahoma, how they too were noticing changes, and that folks were pulling up stakes and moving out to California. “That’s probably why there’s such a fuss going on out here. Time was that you could almost hear a pin drop. Isn’t that so, Franklin?”
Nodding his head in affirmation, Franklin glanced at Ana who seemed especially quiet that evening. “Anything the matter, Ana? You feeling queasy or something?”
“I’m feeling just fine.” Ana had unconsciously taken on the drawl with which Franklin and Amy spoke; now she used their words most of the time. “It’s that I got to thinking about all this ruckus, and how maybe we could do something with it.”
Franklin, sensing that Ana was thinking of something important, was the first to break in. “I don’t follow your meaning.”
“I mean, all we do now is deliver eggs to a few grocery stores, mostly between here and Los Angeles. It seems to me that maybe we can fan out, expand and sell different things other than just eggs.”
Amy and Franklin sat straight up in their chairs, their necks elongated and tense, as was their habit whenever they were surprised. They stared first at Ana, then they exchanged an alarmed look with each other.
Amy heard herself speak, “Different…other than just eggs! What do we have to sell if it’s not eggs?”
“I don’t know, Amy.” Ana paused as if to formulate words that were coming to her mind. “It seems to me that together we could make things, based on chickens and eggs…”
Amy burst in on what Ana was saying, “You mean food?” She appeared both interested and frightened, as if Ana were proposing that they again uproot themselves, just as they had at the beginning of the Great Depression. “No! I really don’t think that would be a good idea. We’re doing just fine as we are. No use getting greedy and biting off more than we can chew…”
“Oh, now, Amy. Just a minute! Let’s give Ana a chance to speak.” Franklin wanted to hear more of what the young woman was thinking. He had increasingly become impressed with her ways of figuring things out and the manner in which she was able to grasp how best to do something. He hadn’t forgotten that it was Ana who had thought of relocating the coops so that there would be better drainage and less flies on the property. Turning to her, he said, “Go on, Ana. We’re listening.”
She smiled. “I was thinking of the Navy yards in Long Beach we’ve been hearing about, and the new factories for planes and things…” She paused as if searching, “I think they’re out in El Segundo, or maybe Torrance…”
“Good God, Gertie!” Amy nearly jumped out of her chair just thinking of the distances that Ana was proposing. “How in the world do you think that we could get out there and back in just one day?”
Ana would not be intimidated. “That’s why I got the map, Amy. Remember? Look, it can be done. In fact, people are beginning to do it more and more, going from one side of town to the other, that is. From here we can take Whittier Boulevard, then left on Atlantic, and then…”
“And what would we sell other than eggs at factories and naval yards? Why, they’d pelt us with our own product before buying raw eggs!” Amy turned to Franklin for support, but she glared at him when she saw his expression of interest and growing enthusiasm.
“I don’t mean plain old eggs, but food, just as you said a minute ago. What I mean is that we can prepare things with eggs and transport them out to sell during the workers’ breaks and lunch time. I remember when I was working at the factory, I would have given anything for something special to buy during my time off.”
“Maybe the girl’s got something!” Franklin was almost sold on the idea of catering to those far-off places.
“All right! I’m listening. Just what kind of things would we make?”
Ana spoke slowly, weighing her words, “We could begin by making jericayas…”
“Lord, God! What is that! I couldn’t even begin to pronounce the word.” Amy was becoming more contentious.
“A jericaya is a small custard that’s made with eggs and a little milk. They’re not hard to make. We could whip up a batch and drive them out to Long Beach just to test if the workers would pay attention to us. If they don’t like us, then we come back home and forget this whole thing. But if they do…well then I can think of other items to make. Things like scrambled egg burritos, or even rompope…”
“Rom…rom!… What was that?”
“It’s like the eggnog you make for Christmas, Amy. In fact, I think it is the same thing. It tastes real good and it gives a lot of energy. You feel like working after a few sips.”
Ana, enthused by her idea, looked from Amy to Franklin, and then back again. She was sitting on the edge of her chair, her face flushed with excitement. She liked what she was feeling; planning made her heart beat fast and she felt happy.
“Well, now, I do declare!…”
Plunging ahead without hearing Amy’s protestations, Ana looked at Franklin, “There’s just one small problem…these things have to be kept cold, otherwise we take the risk of their melting, or going bad.”
“I guess…yes! I think I can gear up something for you, Ana. Maybe some kind of ice chest. That would work, wouldn’t it?”
Ana smiled again, especially when she saw that Amy was giving up on the obstacles. She had leapt to her feet and was scratching her chin as she always did when she was about to begin a new job.
The three of them plunged into the new enterprise. After the day’s ranch work was completed, they worked together first to make the jericayas, the small custards that Amy cast in her muffin molds. They were forced to skip the Bible readings because of the time of night at which they finished. When Ana mapped out the route that they would take to reach Long Beach, they decided to concentrate on one job site in the beginning and wait to see how business went.
The ice chest devised by Franklin worked, fitting snugly into the car’s trunk. Equipped for business, Ana and Amy, with Ismael on her lap, drove to the coast and onto the docks where they parked the car outside the main entrance of one of the plants and waited for the lunch whistle to sound. Shortly after the blast was heard, workers began to emerge from the huge doorway. There were hundreds of them, men in denim overalls and women in slacks and plaid blouses, their hair caught up in nets and scarves. A handful of them caught sight of the sign Ana had handwritten: “Come and get it! Mexican dessert!”
A couple of the workers sauntered over to the women and the boy. Ana smiled and greeted them, saying cheerfully, “Five cents a custard, and you’re in for a treat.” She made her first sale, and less than an hour later their supply of jericayas was gone. Amy and Ana returned home, and together with Franklin, who now would have to remain behind to take care of the ranch, they sat at the table and calculated that, including the ingredients, their labor, the gasoline used for transportation, and even figuring in the ice, they had made more money than they did delivering eggs to stores.
Soon afterward, Franklin went to one of the neighboring ranches to buy a used Chevrolet pick-up truck that he had been offered some time before. He rigged up the vehicle with fixed containers and ice chests so that Amy and Ana could safely transport their goods. Franklin also included a small cubicle where Ismael could take naps during the afternoon while they waited to finish their selling.
The Basts and Ana Calderón worked hard on their ranch and their business as the war years crept by. They remodeled the ranch house to include a large bathroom with a shower and indoor toilet. The bedroom used by Ana and Ismael was expanded so that two beds fit in with space left over for a bookcase and a desk. Franklin negotiated with the Telephone Company, and, after months of waiting, the house finally got a telephone. It was a party line which the Bast house shared with three other homes, but everyone was grateful knowing that it was a luxury during those ye
ars.
The only contact that I had with ’Apá and my sisters during the war years was César. It was through him that I learned of how my father had forbidden anyone to utter my name. It was César who told me of Tavo’s and Alejandra’s wedding, of how everyone had celebrated, and of how my sister went around the house acting like she was a queen.
I usually picked up César when Amy and I were in the neighborhood delivering eggs. He’d wait for us in the alley behind Doña Hiroko’s store where we met him. There, he would jump into the back of the truck and take Ismael in his arms, holding him there as Amy and I delivered the flats of eggs.
César was only around twelve years old at that time, but he seemed much older. He was a tall boy, so much so that most people thought that he was at least four or five years older than he really was. He liked this, and he tried to act like a grown-up. I noticed also that he was using pachuco words he had picked up in the barrio. When I questioned him about the way he was speaking, he laughed, telling me that the girls ran after him because of it.
Even though he looked like a teenager, my brother was still a little boy during the first years of the war. If I ever forgot César’s age, something always happened to remind me of it. I realized how young he was, especially at the end of our runs when it was time for him to get off the pick-up and head home. Each time he’d cry as he hugged me goodbye. I used to think it was kind of funny that such a big boy cried so easily, but it helped me remember that he wasn’t as grown up as he looked.
Later on, when Amy and I started traveling to Long Beach to sell our food, César came along, too. He loved the ships anchored at dockside, and he jabbered with the riveters and welders. He was always full of questions. “Ana, why don’t you become one of these workers instead of making desserts and frying chickens to sell?” This was one of his favorite ones, and I tried to tell him the truth. “Because I feel freer at what I’m doing, César. I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to work in a factory.”
After saying this to him, I wondered if I was really free. Now, I doubt it. I don’t think I was free because there wasn’t a day that went by without my thinking of Tavo. After César told me of him and Alejandra, I found that I couldn’t sleep. I felt jealous and angry, and I visualized them in bed, kissing and holding one another.
This went on until a year after, in the spring of ‘43, César told me that Tavo and Alejandra had had a big fight. He said that it had begun as an argument, and no one had paid attention because they always bickered. Tavo then left, slamming the door and swearing never to return.
César said that he did come back later that night when they were all in bed, and that he was drunk. Tavo pounded on the front door, shouting for Alejandra to come out to talk to him. When she did, they screamed at one another, waking up most of the neighbors. She tried to scratch his face, and he slapped her so hard that she fell off the porch. ’Apá tried to help Alejandra, but Tavo, crazed with rage and whiskey, hit him, too. When he realized what he had done, he ran away and didn’t return.
A few days later, César told me that they had heard from Tavo. Still drunk and not telling anyone, he had enlisted in the Marines. When he wrote to Alejandra to tell her of his whereabouts, he was in training at Camp Pendleton near San Diego. A few weeks later, he was shipped out to fight the Japanese in the South Pacific.
When I heard this, I became more nervous and agitated than ever. I hardly slept at nights and I found it hard to eat. Tavo’s face was engraved inside of me so that every time I closed my eyes I saw him. Sometimes, trying to get relief, I took Ismael in my arms, hoping to fall asleep, but it was impossible. It wasn’t until one night when I held my son close that a feeling buried deep inside of me floated out. I recognized it. I was wishing with all the strength of my soul that Tavo would be killed over there, so that he would never return. Despite the shame I felt because of that longing, I was finally able to sleep.
Shortly after midnight on a sweltering Saturday in June, 1943, the phone rang in the Bast house. Franklin, still in his undershorts, answered. When he knocked at Ana’s door she was already in her robe and heading out to the kitchen.
“It’s for you.”
She couldn’t explain the feeling of fear that gripped her; she picked up the phone, nonetheless. There was silence at the other end of the line even after she had spoken into the receiver several times.
Finally, a voice stuttered, “Ana, it’s me…”
It was Alejandra’s voice, shaky, filled with tears. Ana’s first thought was that Octavio had been killed. She braced herself.
“¿Qué pasa, Alejandra? Where are you calling from?”
“He’s dying…beaten…he’s calling for you…”
Her mind reeled trying to focus in on what her sister was saying. Her thoughts scrambled in different directions, unable to grasp whom her sister was talking about. She had expected to be told of a death in battle, on a ship, or in a plane crash.
“Who, Alejandra? Who’s hurt? Is it ’Apá?”
“No! It’s César! Some of his friends brought him in, and I think he’s dying. He’s over at the house…I’m calling you from the liquor store.”
“How? What happened?… Alejandra, I can’t understand what you’re saying! Stop crying, and talk to me!”
Her sister’s words were garbled by hysteria, and they were incomprehensible. Ana could hear her other sisters wailing in the background; she also heard male voices jabbering loudly. Trying to piece things together, she concluded that they must have run across the street to the only phone available. “Alejandra, did you leave César alone? Pass the phone over to somebody else. Do it, right now! Do you hear me?”
After a pause of a few seconds, the voice of a young man came on the line. “Ana, it’s me, Memo Estrada.”
“Memo, what happened? Tell me slowly so I can understand you.”
“We were out on the street…”
“Who, Memo?’
“Just a few of us guys. It was Oscar, Carlos, your brother and me. We weren’t doing nothing, I swear! We had just come out of the dance hall, when some gabacho sailors started beating us up, then some guys from the other side of town got into it. It was a mess! I couldn’t tell who was beating who…”
Ana’s blood rushed to her head. It pounded with such force that for a second her hearing was blocked and she was having difficulty catching the words coming to her over the thin black wire she was twisting in her left hand. The earlier part of the evening flashed through her mind.
César had come to visit. He had come with his friend Memo who had driven in a car borrowed from his uncle. At first glance, Ana had a difficult time recognizing her brother because he was dressed in a zoot-suit he was wearing for the first time. She had never seen him dressed that way. Not knowing what to say, she invited both young men to come into the kitchen. Franklin and Amy were speechless at seeing César looking like a grown man. He obviously had come for their benefit, so that they could take in the outfit of which he seemed so proud.
César’s zoot-suit was sharp, Ana admitted to herself. It was tailor-made of pin-striped sharkskin fabric, bottle green in color, and its wide shoulder pads accentuated the boy’s already broad back. The coat hung gracefully nearly to his knees, and the slacks draped to a narrow fit around his ankles. César’s shoes were of cordovan leather; they gleamed in the defused light of the kitchen. His hat, which he had deliberately left on, because without it the get-up was incomplete, was light green, and its wide brim was turned up slightly on the left side, giving César a cocky, daring look.
“Esa, carnala. How do you like my tacuche?”
César’s improvised sing-song accent left Ana speechless for a few seconds. Recuperating, she said, “It looks pretty good, César, but I think that you’re too young to be dressed like that. And what’s with this jive talk? Has ’Apá seen you dressed up like this, and talking like a pachuco?”
“Nah. The jefito would have a heart attack if he saw me. I keep my threads over at Memo’s. Righ
t, ese vato loco?”
Ana was having difficulty dealing with the change in her brother’s looks and his manner of speaking. She had noticed words creeping into his language before, but never so marked. She realized, however, that he had come over to impress her, and that he felt good about his new style but, she told herself, he was too young.
“Where are you boys going tonight, all dressed up this way? I hope not out on the streets.” Franklin had stepped over to stand in front of the two young men, and when he saw them make a face, he reminded them, “Haven’t you heard what happened the other night? Some marines put a couple of the guys from your neighborhood right in the hospital.” He was referring to the attack that occurred in the center of town a few days earlier.
“Nah, Mr. Bast. That won’t happen to us. We’re just going to push some trucks around tonight, that’s all.”
Memo, also in a zoot-suit, giggled loudly at what César had said.
Amy sucked her teeth in irritation because she didn’t get the joke, but Franklin turned to her, “It’s an expression that means they’re going dancing.”
Ana took César by the arm and led him out to the front porch. Memo followed. When she looked back, she saw Franklin and Amy return to their bedroom, shaking their heads in disapproval. She patted her brother on the shoulder to let him know that she thought he was handsome in his suit, and she tried to smile.
“You look real good, hermanito, and I’m glad you came to show me your new outfit, but I think that you and Memo should go back home and stay there. It’s Saturday night, and you don’t know what’s going on out there.”
“Are you kidding, Ana? Tonight’s a big night. The chicks are just waiting for us. Right, ese vato?”
Ana didn’t let Memo answer. “César, cut it out. You’re only thirteen years old! I don’t care how grown up you look dressed this way! You’re still too young to be messing around with girls. Now, do as I say, and go straight home!” Turning to the other boy, Ana blurted out, “Memo, how old are you?”
The Memories of Ana Calderón Page 13