Preston's Honor

by Mia Sheridan

  I knew about the camp outside of town because some of the men and women my mama had worked with at Sawyer Farm so many years before had lived there, though I’d never driven by it personally. My mama had lived in one similar when she’d first settled in California—a camp that was now closed.

  It had actually been a small matter of pride that my mama and I had been able to rent the outbuilding on the property next to the Sawyers’, rather than having to live in the migrant camp off the highway, even though the outbuilding had been an underequipped shack. I had hated it, but it was ours, and we didn’t have to share it with five other strangers. I tilted my head. “You do?”

  “Yeah, Alejandro and Raul both drive so there’s space in Alejandro’s truck or Raul’s car if you want to join us. It’s an eye-opener. And it really does bring a sense of satisfaction to help in such a personal way.”

  I wasn’t sure I needed my eyes opened to poverty greater than what I’d experienced myself, but then again, maybe I did. And I knew I could use something to bring some personal satisfaction. “Sure . . . I’d like to go.”

  “Great,” she said, stepping away from the computer and heading out to the restaurant floor. “Meet us up front in half an hour.”

  I did my side work as quickly as possible and cashed out for the night and then pulled on my light jacket, heading toward the front. Rosa was coming out of her office. “Oh, Lia, María said you’re coming with us.”

  “Hi, Rosa. Yes, if that’s okay.”

  “It’s wonderful. The more hands the better.”

  I helped them load up Alejandro’s pickup truck at the back door to the kitchen with boxes of food and then climbed into Raul’s car with him and María and we were off.

  We turned off the highway onto a bumpy dirt road and drove past a sign that read, “Milkweed Labor Camp.” The camp was at the dead end of the road and we parked next to a truck so old and beat up it looked as if it had been ready for the impound yard long before I was born. I knew it was at least one of the trucks the people who lived here drove to the farms, because I’d seen ones just like it over the years with men and women packed into the back wearing baseball caps draped with bandanas on their way to work where they’d spend the day picking fruits and vegetables under the unforgiving Californian sun. Men and women who worked longer and harder and with deep pride, so grateful to have the work.

  My aunt had described the living conditions in many parts of Mexico—the poverty, the despair, the children and disabled begging in the streets. In so many places, she’d told me, there were no jobs, little food or medicine, and even more meager hope.

  Aunt Florencia had described the homes made from used tires and cardboard, no running water, no heat. Who wouldn’t risk everything to give their children a better life than that?

  I hopped out with Raul and María just as Alejandro and Rosa were pulling up next to Raul’s car. We all took a box from the back of Alejandro’s truck, and I followed them to one of the run-down buildings where we deposited the boxes of food onto tables in the middle of the room.

  Alejandro talked to a woman who seemed to be running the place in some capacity, and she went with us to the truck as we carried in the last of the boxes. “She’s the camp manager,” Rosa said as she set the final box down next to the one I’d carried in. “Her name is Becca Jones. She’s a wonderful advocate for the people who live here. So many are unemployed right now because of the drought and the crops farmers weren’t able to plant last year. And even some who have work have trouble feeding their families on what they make.”

  I nodded, looking over my shoulder to see a line forming at the door and watching as Becca started unpacking the boxes. She gestured to the first people at the door to come forward and they did, taking what she offered to them.

  Yes, I knew about the trouble these people faced firsthand. And looking at the line, some had more than one or two mouths to feed.

  There was a man near the back with his hand on the shoulder of a woman holding what looked like a newborn baby in a fabric carrier on her chest. The small lump let out a tiny squall and the woman reached down and adjusted her shirt in a way that let me know she was nursing the baby hidden by the material of the sling. She smiled softly and crooned to the baby who quieted again.

  Sadness and a feeling of loss slid through me, and I looked away. I had been so overwhelmed and lonely during the time I had tried nursing Hudson those first several months. They’d faded into a fog of depression and self-condemnation and I’d never get them back. And then I’d left and missed the second half of his first year.

  My throat felt tight and I busied my hands by unpacking boxes and organizing food with the others, who were putting the vegetables in one location, the fruit in another, and the dry goods in yet another. I would not sink into self-pity when so many right in front of me were in greater need.

  I glanced over at Rosa, and she was looking at me thoughtfully. I blushed, feeling ashamed as if she could read my thoughts, as if she knew I was feeling sorry for myself rather than focusing my mind on the work I’d come to share in.

  The line grew outside and the busyness of the job took my mind away from my own melancholy. A man holding a little girl, who appeared to be about three or four, moved up to the table and took the bag I gave him with a head nod and a shy thank you. I handed a shiny, red apple to the little girl in his arms and her eyes grew round with delight as she brought the fruit to her mouth and bit into it. I laughed. “¿Dulce?” Sweet? She nodded happily and they moved along.

  An hour later all the food had been doled out and the people had gone back to their homes—small wooden structures in three rows of a dozen or so. The camp almost looked like a very run-down, very small town, which effectively it was.

  Outside, the few children I’d seen in line kicked a ball together. The women sat on benches nearby, including the woman with the tiny baby still strapped to her chest. I watched her, noticing how the other women fawned over the baby, leaning in to peer into the opening the carrier provided. The young mother laughed and patted the baby’s bottom.

  Rosa joined me as I watched the children play and the mothers interact. “Alejandro, Raul, and María are going to help make a couple of repairs. I’m useless when it comes to tools that aren’t of the kitchen variety.” She laughed softly. “They shouldn’t take longer than half an hour or so. Is that okay, or do you need to get back? Is someone waiting for you?”

  At her question, my heart squeezed. “No, that’s fine. No one’s waiting for me.” If I had still lived with Preston, he would be waiting for me, but right now he was at home and as far as he knew, I was either still at work or headed home. He might call me but I had my cell phone with me so I’d know if he did. As for my mama, she’d never waited for me. Even when I’d been a very young girl, I’d come and gone as I’d pleased.

  Rosa smiled gently. “Sit with me?”

  “Sure.” We went to a wooden bench near the front door of the community center and sat in silence for a moment, watching the people and glancing at the sun setting over the mountains.

  “Becca’s family came here from Oklahoma in the thirties. They were Dust Bowl migrants.”

  I looked over at Rosa, tilting my head, the quote rolling off my tongue, “They were hungry, and they were fierce. And they had hoped to find a home, and they found only hatred.”

  Rosa laughed in surprise as she looked back at me. “You’re a reader. Steinbeck, yes. The words apply to these migrants, too, yes?”

  I nodded, looking back to where the women sat, watching as a few weary-looking men walked from the community center back to the cabins they occupied. Hoping for a home and so often finding only hatred.

  You can’t always understand some cultures.

  One of those Mexicans.

  Surely you understand why I don’t invite you in.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s easier with community, though. Conditions are not ideal, but at least they have each other.”

 
I nodded. “Sometimes I wonder if my mother would have been happier if we’d lived in a place like this . . . or just somewhere where she could speak to people other than me. Speaking so little English, she must have been so lonely not being able to converse with women her own age.”

  Rosa studied me for a moment. “Ah, yes. That’s very difficult. For both of you, I imagine. My own parents didn’t speak English either, but they came here with lots of family. And they had all of us kids to interpret for them. After a while, they learned enough to move easily through society, to start a business, to make a good life.” She paused before asking, “Your mother, she is . . . undocumented?”

  Heat rose in my face at the direct question and the familiar shame engulfed me. My mother had never wanted me, so why did it hurt me so deeply to know she was unwanted, too? That if people knew, they would call her names and cut her down? I knew Rosa wouldn’t do that, but the honesty still didn’t come easily. “Yes,” I said very softly.

  She nodded. “It’s very difficult to find happiness when you don’t feel as if you belong anywhere.”

  I sighed. I supposed that might be a big part of it. But, not the entirety of my mother’s joyless existence. “I don’t think my mother will ever find happiness,” I murmured. Sometimes I wondered if she even wanted to. I suspected she didn’t.

  Rosa tilted her head. “Happiness. Hmm.” She appeared to think for a moment. “Perhaps the word I should have used was purpose. Happiness is nice, but it’s also . . . fleeting and based on what you have, or don’t have, in any given moment. Happiness . . . well, it has to be continually fed. It doesn’t give your life purpose. It doesn’t give meaning to your existence.” She looped her arm in mine and shook it gently and I laughed. “Real joy, the kind that permeates your life and brings contentment to your soul comes from service. So no, happiness is not the word. Purpose. Contentment. Joy. To find those things, don’t seek happiness. Search instead for those who need your gift and give it away. Perhaps your mother would like to join us here next week. Perhaps you should encourage her—gently.”

  I squeezed her arm and laughed softly again, thinking what a wise, wonderfully kind person she was and how grateful I was to know her. I’d only known her for such a short time, yet my life felt enriched by her presence. “Maybe I’ll try.”

  “That’s all any of us can do, mija.”

  Mija. Daughter.

  And for the second time in a week I felt the comforting joy of being mothered.

  **********

  As we were pulling back into Abuelo’s parking lot, my phone dinged with a text message, and I pulled it from my pocket.

  Preston: Are you off work yet?

  Me: Yes. Just about to leave.

  Preston: Give me ten minutes. I’m on my way.

  I smiled as I texted back.

  Me: Okay.

  I said goodnight to everyone and then went to my car, letting myself in and waiting as the radio played softly.

  A few minutes later, I spotted Preston’s truck pulling into the lot and I felt pure joy. A week ago, I’d been terrified of being near him, fearful of his hatred and distrust. Now . . .

  Preston stepped out of his truck and my heart started beating more quickly as he walked toward me, his hands in his pockets, that serious look on his face that was so him.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked on a smile. After yesterday, we’d parted with hopes and promises for our relationship, but hadn’t made any precise plans other than he’d call me.

  We’d talked about starting from the beginning, and it really felt as if we were—I was experiencing those fluttery butterfly wings in my tummy that Preston had always elicited, and it surprised me yet it didn’t.

  “I had something in mind, and I was hoping you were up for it.” He must have recently taken a shower, as his hair was damp, and I could smell the subtle scent of the soap he used. As usual, Preston wasn’t much for fancy grooming. He wore casual clothes—jeans and T-shirts—and his hair usually looked as if he’d run his hands through it several times to tame it. I loved that about him actually. My farm boy.

  I tilted my head. “All right. Who’s watching Hudson?”

  “I put him to bed. My mom’s home.”

  I nodded, looking down at my uniform and pulling my sweater around myself. “I’m not exactly dressed for a social outing.”

  He smiled as he took my hand and led me to his truck. “It’ll just be you and me.” After holding the door for me, he walked around and climbed in his side.

  “Oh, really?” I asked.

  He glanced over at me, his lips quirked up in a lopsided smile and my heart twisted. God, he really was ridiculously handsome. He turned back to the road and as we drove, I allowed myself the simple pleasure of admiring his good looks, smiling to myself.

  A few minutes later we drove into town and Preston pulled into a spot on the curb in front of the Laundromat. I looked at him in confusion, but he only grinned and got out of his truck.

  Once he’d opened my door and helped me down, I followed as he led me straight into the warm, fragrant interior of the Laundromat I’d once enjoyed spending time at. “We’re in the Laundromat.”

  He let go of my hand and stuck his in his pockets again and tilted his head. His hair was fully dry now. A lock of it fell over his forehead and, despite wanting to push it back, I didn’t. I glanced around. I hadn’t been here in over five years—we had a washer and dryer in the basement of our apartment building—but everything looked the same. A sense of nostalgia gripped me, bringing with it a strange sense of loneliness.

  “Do you ever think about that night, Lia? The night we danced?”

  I looked back to where Preston was standing, tilting my head. That night . . . I knew exactly which night he was referring to. I’d thought about that night so many times over the years, relived the way it had felt to be held by him. “I . . . yes. Or . . . I used to. I used to think about it all the time.”

  He nodded slowly and took his full bottom lip into his mouth, his upper teeth scraping along it before he let it go. A tremor of heat moved through me at the unknowingly seductive gesture. He took a few steps back to the door and turned the sign over so it said, “Closed,” to those on the other side and then flipped the lock.

  I laughed shortly. “I don’t think you’re allowed to do that.”

  “I am because I rented this place for a couple of hours.” He took my hand and led me to the middle of the space, the exact spot where I’d once stood folding clothes, and turned to find him standing in the doorway of the Laundromat. Oh, how I’d loved him that night. How I’d wanted him and been so confused and unsure.

  “You rented the Laundromat?”

  “I didn’t want anyone to disturb us.” He gave me a crooked smile. “You might not know this, but there are a surprising number of hoops you have to jump through to acquire this space for a date.”

  I laughed. “I didn’t know that. I haven’t exactly been on a whole lot of dates.”

  His face paled, and he closed his eyes for a second. “Oh, Lia, I’m so damn sorry about that.”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  He studied me for a second, his eyes moving over my features as he pulled his teeth over his full bottom lip again.

  He leaned in and kissed me quickly and then turned and went over to the laundry soap dispenser and reached for something on top. Was that a remote control? Returning to me, he clicked a button and music suddenly filled the room.

  I let out a startled laugh and Preston’s lips turned up. He moved toward me and I grasped the counter behind my back, tipping my head up to look at him. His smile melted and his eyes moved to my mouth and then back to my eyes. I swallowed. “That night, I wanted so badly to kiss you. I was vibrating with it.”

  “You were?” My voice came out so softly I wondered if he had even heard me. But he nodded and moved in even closer.

  “Yeah. I wanted to kiss you, and I wanted to do more than that.�
�

  “What more?” I wanted him to keep talking. I was desperate to hear not only all the thoughts that were in his head now, but the thoughts that had been in his head all those years I’d pined for him. Especially that night. The night he was supposed to be at his senior prom and instead had been with me. I’d been so hungry for him for so very, very long.

  His smile was sudden and slightly bashful and made my heart flip yet again. “I think I exhibited what more on my kitchen table.”

  I let out a small chuckle on a breath. “Oh, that more . . .”

  His face became serious again. “Yeah, but that more can wait. I want to take things slowly and do all the things we should have done before.”

  “What sort of things?” I felt slightly breathless. I wasn’t mystified. I just wanted to hear him say the words.

  He leaned in closer and my breath caught as his lips brushed the corner of mine. “Slow things . . .” He kissed my neck lightly, and I couldn’t hide the shiver that moved through my body. “Gentle things.”

  “O-okay. And we’re starting here?”

  “Yes. We’re starting here. I should have done things differently the first time and if we’re starting over, this is where I’d like to begin. I’d like to show you what I should have done—what I wish I’d done the first time we were in this Laundromat.”

  Preston glanced up to where the music was playing and smiled. I became aware of what song was beginning and smiled back. “It’s your favorite song.”

  He chuckled softly and the sound, so rare and so long since I’d heard it, was so sweet I nearly cried. “Sure is. Will you dance with me?”

  I stepped into his arms and felt the wild pounding of my heart as his heat enveloped me. I felt suddenly shy and out of sorts. Was it strange that I’d known Preston almost all of my life, was intimately acquainted with his body, had given birth to his child, and yet in his gentle embrace, I still trembled with the newness of love?

  In some ways we’d lived out an entire relationship—the beginning, the middle, and the end—and in some ways we’d never had a relationship at all. I understood completely now why he’d suggested beginning anew. We needed that. I needed that. And yet at the same time, we also had to contend with reality because emotions were going to come up based on things we’d already experienced.