It had been a long time since he’d seen his family. He hadn’t even met his youngest son, Rolando, who was born at home four months earlier, in their small two-room mud house. That made four children. One daughter and three sons. Six mouths to feed. His wife, Chula, was tired too. But she was a strong woman; always confident and happy. They had been married eight years now. It was a good marriage, a happy marriage. He loved her more than life itself and missed her every day.
He carried a black and white picture of her, wrinkled and torn at the edges, from when she was still in school before he had even met her. Her dark hair was swept up and pulled tight against her head, a peacock feather fastened to it, giving it the appearance of a small hat. Chula was facing to the right of the camera, sitting stoically in a pressed white blouse, attempting to look older than her fourteen years. They had met at a quinceanera, better known as a celebration of a girl’s fifteenth birthday when she becomes a woman. In the smaller cities of Mexico when one holds a ceremony such as this, the whole town is invited. From the youngest to the oldest. To the American eye, it looks much like a wedding, with grand dresses, and attendants, cake, food and lots of alcohol.
Chula was one of the attendants for her cousin, Lupe’s quinceanera. Tomás was the son of the family that had provided the food, earning him a place in the festivities as well. From the moment he saw her, he had loved her, and after her own celebration, he asked her father for her hand in marriage. Though she was only fifteen, and Tomás seventeen, and had a job at the local lumber mill in Allende, just a few miles from his family home. He never finished school, having quit to help support his family when he was only eleven. Though the law in Mexico was that you couldn’t work until you were fourteen, the government couldn’t afford to monitor it, so almost eighty percent of the businesses never followed any of the laws when it came to employees.
Tomás had worked hard and with his father’s help, built his and Chula’s home with his bare hands. Less than a year later his first daughter was born, then a year later, his eldest son. And, so it went, year after year. She had been pregnant every year of their marriage, having lost two children in between all the others. In the beginning, they were making it just fine. That was until the economy tanked. After Echeverria had become president in 1970, the peso slowly became more and more worthless. Only under Pres. Portillo and Hurtado, things went from bad to worse with the peso devaluing by a painful fifteen hundred fifty-two percent by 1988. So, not only was there no longer any work, but the pay for the work barely fed his growing family. Yet he couldn’t give up. He had five hungry mouths to feed. Though he was focused and faithful, his spirit was disheartened.
It had been two weeks since he last worked, and the monies he had left were almost gone. Most of what he earned he sent home every payday. But after nearly starving between jobs on his first trip over the border ten years before, he held a little more back each time, just in case. Most of the places he worked were cattle or horse ranches; places where he could get paid in cash and a social security number didn’t matter so much. But he would never turn down work. He was a hard worker. He’d mowed yards and helped pick fruit in orchards. Planted fields. Now, once more, he stood humbly before another American, hoping beyond hope that he had something that needed fixing or picking or a horse that needed breaking.
The man took off his straw hat and scratched his head as he thought. He then motioned to Tomás to follow as he turned and walked toward an old barn. When they arrived inside, he pointed to bales of hay that filled it, then looked at the tractor. Then he motioned with his hands a number and continued to talk with his hands until he felt Tomás understood. Then he walked him through a breezeway to a tack room that smelled of horse sweat. The rancher pointed to a cot leaning against the wall and nodded when Tomás looked at him questioningly. Then he motioned as though feeding himself. Tomás hesitated, then slowly nodded. The kind rancher turned him around, his hand on Tomás’ shoulder, and led him toward a beautiful house.
Only they walked past it, and as they did, the man turned to Tomás. His demeanor was no longer gentle and kind, but rough. The American began shoving him toward another barn. Roughly the man grabbed his arm and pulled him through the large doors with peeling paint. Tomás heard crying and sobbing, pleadings in his own language. Once inside, he saw a hole in the ground, a deep dark hole from where the sounds were coming. Suddenly, he became fearful and slowed, only the rancher pushed him closer. Tomás’ heart raced as he turned to run away. But when he looked down, his feet were stuck in the mud—his hands suddenly bound tightly in front. He’d never been so scared in all his life.
Tomás thought of his children. And Chula. His beautiful Chula. He cried out. “Por favor, Senor. No. Please!” Suddenly he was falling; the screams below surrounding him as he cried out. “Chula!”
Acknowledgements
This book was special because, as I was writing it, it took on a whole new meaning, and its characters, a whole new battle. It was no longer about two insane men, as it had begun. It became a statement about the veterans of America and what they endure. I’m blessed not only to know many veterans, but to be able to call them friends. Proudly, some of my family has served as well.
Thank you to the men and women of the armed services, and their families. Those who sacrifice tirelessly to serve and defend our country on the sea, land and in the air. May God continue to watch over and bless each of you.
A shout out to my dear friends Vicki, Terry and Russ, and, of course, you Bubbie, who inspired characters throughout the book, if merely in name. You are cherished, dear friends and my life would not have been the same without your friendship.
Thanks again to Bobby Adair, who I, once again, pay homage to in this book. You’ve been a great friend and a great inspiration over the years. And, I’m going to keep riding your coattails until I hit the bestseller’s lists like you have.
And, my sincerest thanks to my readers. You are the reason I keep writing. It’s not just the numbers of books that are downloaded or ordered, but the personal reviews I receive from total strangers all over the world, telling me they love how I write. It’s for you that I write. You keep reading… I’ll keep writing.
God bless… xxo mag
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