The bus driver gives me a look. “Why would you want to go there?”
I have nowhere else to go. That wouldn’t be a good answer, not alone, late at night, with a strange man, cheery whistler though he may be. “My friend lives there.”
“You one of them wetback lovers?”
“No! I mean—” For the life of me, I can’t think what wetback means. From his expression, it’s not something good. “My friend is a teacher,” I say.
The bus driver digs in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, shakes one out, lights it, and takes a drag. “I can drive you there.”
My heart sinks when it should rise. “It’s not out of your way?”
“Have to drive right past the place. No other way to go.”
“Oh.” I press my fingers to my temples. I can’t think straight for the pain.
“Come on, then, if you’re coming.”
The bus driver walks to the lone car parked along the side of the road. Lugging my suitcase, I follow him. During the five-minute drive, he shares his opinion of Kirk Camp, though I don’t ask for it. “It’s its own little communidad, one big familia.” His voice holds disgust. “A few hundred people live there, in their cardboard houses, walking their dirty streets, bathing in the Rio Hondo River. Most of them are Spics, but a few are Japs. They breed like rabbits—every kid that pops out is automatically a U.S. citizen. And Kirk Camp is just one of the stinking barrios springing up around East Los Angeles. Those people travel for the best picking, but hell if they don’t usually come back here.” The man stops the car by a field filled with the hulking shadows of other cars and trucks, some of which are long flatbeds. “Your teacher friend?” he says. “He’s white?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We don’t need no more mixed kids running around.”
I feel like I might vomit again, but there’s nothing in my stomach. I swallow hard, look past parked cars and trucks to the edge of what must be Kirk Camp. There are no streetlights, but there is a moon that’s nearly full, and it illuminates the shacks, cobbled together, as in all the other camps, from whatever is available. I can make out a few nicer homes, too—small and square, made of concrete and painted what in the daylight must be bright colors.
“You wanted Kirk Camp.” The bus driver blows a stream of smoke at me from the corner of his mouth. “You got it.”
I thank him for the ride and get out of his car. I drag my suitcase from the backseat and shut the door, trying not to slam it, trying to keep it quiet. He pulls away.
A dirt road takes me a few blocks into Kirk Camp. The road is flanked with little buildings—the shacks and small concrete homes I saw from the car, along with humble shops. All of the shops are dark and quiet, as are many residences. But a few of the homes are still lit from within. The glow of kerosene lamps and candlelight seeps through chinks in the walls, between curtains, beneath doors, and sometimes through gaps in the roofs, as do sounds of muffled conversation and laughter. In one shack, someone plays a simple tune, a melody I don’t recognize, on a guitar. All in all, it feels peaceful enough, and I am grateful for the quiet. I come upon a gas station at one corner, and then a church, and the metal frames of a swing set, slide, and teeter-totter glint in the moonlight a few blocks down. There must be a park or a school yard. From all appearances, the community is, as Thomas said, self-sufficient.
Just past the church, weaving from the effort of walking and carrying the suitcase, I encounter a diminutive elderly woman. She wears a long black skirt, a tattered sweater, and a black shawl on her head. She draws back, startled. But before she can hurry away, I say Thomas’s name and address. She eyes me warily, and I realize it’s pointless to ask; she probably doesn’t speak English. But then, without a word, she beckons and leads me down a side road to a dead end. There, a larger dwelling stands, cobbled together from scraps of tin and wood. She knocks once and then, as the door opens, steps behind me.
A man stands before me, and behind him sit other men gathered around a table, at the center of which are a cluster of candles. They are leaning toward each other, urgently discussing something in Spanish. There’s the thick odor of men who’ve worked a long, hard day, and laced through that, traces of coffee, pan-fried onions, and meat. One by one, initially and then all at once, the group of men looks toward the open door and sees me: a foolish-looking, disheveled white woman carrying a large suitcase and a pocketbook, and, no doubt, wincing in pain.
“Gringa,” a man says, among other things, to someone I can’t see. There’s the sound of uneven footsteps—a slight hitch in the step. My heartbeat quickens. Sure enough, Thomas appears at the door. His eyes widen at the sight of me, and he takes a faltering step back.
“You’re not using crutches.” The words escape me, the first thing I can think of to say. A poor excuse for Hello, I hope you don’t mind, I couldn’t think where else to go. Thomas gives his head a slight shake, more to clear it, I think, than to signify yes or no. Then he hitches the leg of his trouser above the ankle to reveal a new prosthesis made of polished wood and shiny metal. A better leg in a sturdier boot, with a matching boot on his other foot.
“Courtesy of the WPA,” Thomas says. “I’m forever in their debt.” He doesn’t seem to be joking. But then, “What are you doing here already, Ruth? I never thought you’d arrive so quickly.”
“I haven’t had much control over anything this last little while. I didn’t have much of a choice but to take the first bus.”
To my horror, tears spring to my eyes. Admitting this, I’m shocked all over again; and the doctor was right: Talking does nothing good for my head.
There’s a rustle behind me. I turn to see the elderly woman vanishing into the shadows. If Thomas wants me to leave, he’ll have to show me the way back to the bus station.
I blink the tears away. “You said if I have need. Or your mother said you said. I have need, Thomas.”
He hesitates a moment, then says something in Spanish to the men inside, and steps out onto the large flagstone that serves as a front step, closing the door behind him.
“Your roommate only said something had happened,” he says. “She wouldn’t tell me any more than that.” He watches me closely. “What happened?”
You brought this on yourself. That’s what some might say. It’s your fault. You acted a certain way, or dressed a certain way, or said a certain thing, some might say—Thomas might say. You’re a young, naive, needy woman—a lost and lonely widow. He’s a handsome, older man, a powerful man who was your mentor and employer and held your future in his hands.
It all comes back to: You brought this on yourself.
“Ruth?” Thomas’s hands are jammed in his pockets, his shoulders hunched as if against the cold. In as few words as possible, I tell him what happened—my side of the story, the unofficial story. His eyes narrow as he listens. “Dear Lord,” he says when I’m done. The words come from deep down inside him, a kind of prayer. And then: “You’re ill, aren’t you?”
My head weighs heavy. Swaying on my feet, I try not to close my eyes. I feel his hand on my arm before I see it, and then a weight lifted as he takes my suitcase.
“There’s a place for you,” he says. “I’ll take you there.”
PART III
May 1935–August 1935
TWELVE
Strong coffee percolates on the wood-burning stove, corn tortillas warm on a griddle, pinto beans stew in a pot. Breakfast awakens me, as it has every morning this past week. I turn on my cot to see, through the crack in the faded blue curtains that afford some privacy to the three of us who inhabit this place, Silvia Morales standing at the stove on the other side of the single room, her long black braid twisted into a crown at the top of her head. She wears a simple housedress, sack-like in appearance, given her small stature. The mismatched side panels of fabric reveal that the dress has been let out to allow for her pregnancy. Woven leather sandals protect her swollen feet, and even from here, I can smell the faint scent of the palm oil t
hat her husband, Luis, rubs on her belly at night and in the morning, when the faded curtains entirely shield me from them and them from me. When their murmuring turns tender, I muffle my ears with my pillow and try not to hear. For their privacy, of course, and also because of the loneliness that tugs at me during those times—a loneliness that compels me to think I’m more alone than I actually am.
Thomas was right when he said there was a place for me here in Kirk Camp. The home of Silvia and Luis—this has proven itself the best place for me as the effects of my concussion continue to ebb and flow. Silvia comes from a long line of curanderas, female healers. She is as essential as a doctor back in Mexico, and she’s essential in this community, too. With her herbs and methods, she’s helped many here. She’s helping me.
Her husband, Luis, is an artisan; ceramics was his particular interest before they came to California. Luis is also a gentle man, as his unflagging tenderness to his young wife reveals. If my time at Union University has made me sure of one thing, it’s that I most value gentleness in men—in women, too. Honesty and compassion as well.
Silvia flips the tortillas. The gold of her wedding band glints in the sunlight. My hand goes to my throat; there is some small comfort in clasping my own ring and the boy’s silver cross. Silvia turns at my stirring and catches my eye through the crack in the curtains.
“Good morning.” Her low, soft voice holds faint traces of her original language.
“Buenos días.”
Silvia has been teaching me a bit of Spanish over the course of the few last days. This has allowed me to rest a lot—following doctor’s orders, and Silvia’s orders, too—and think a little, but not too much. We keep our lessons short. Typically, in our exchanges, she speaks English—she feels she needs the practice, though I’ve tried to reassure her that her English is very good. She speaks Spanish only when she needs to correct me, which, alas, is quite often. I know my numbers in Spanish now, up to a hundred. I know the correct Spanish pronunciation of the alphabet, basic phrases, and the words for the few household items that surround us in this one-room shack. Or, if I don’t know all these things by heart, I have written them down in a little notebook, correctly spelled, phonetically spelled, and defined—my makeshift Spanish dictionary.
“Are you hungry?” Silvia asks.
“Sí, tengo hambre.”
She beams at me—a reward for my accuracy. “Luis and I ate before he left for the fields.” She pats her swollen belly, grimaces. “But I am hungry again. Time for more.”
I sit up, pushing aside the bright wedding quilt, and set my feet on the dirt floor. It must be later than I thought; the sunlight is dense, the heat oppressive. I run my finger under the collar of my nightgown, damp with sweat, hoping to let in some air. “I’ll just be a minute, washing up.”
For modesty, I throw a light gray shawl of Silvia’s over my shoulders, then slip between the curtains and hurry outside to the privy. Then I clean myself as well as I’m able at the pump. The icy cold water stings my skin and makes the slowly shrinking lump on the back of my head flare painfully; the ache spans my skull and reaches my temples. I know from past mornings that my head will continue to hurt on and off throughout my waking hours. Sometimes the pain wakes me at night. But thanks to the rest Silvia has insisted I take, and the teas and poultices that she administers regularly, I’m feeling a little better each passing day. My nausea has abated. My vision is restored. I’ve got my balance back. Sooner than later, I’ll be able to join Thomas in teaching the camp’s children.
For this is what I decided my first night here, after Thomas walked me to Luis and Silvia’s home and I shook her small hand, callused from the year and a half she spent working in the farm fields, until her pregnancy became complicated and she had to stop or put the baby at risk. Silvia’s hand was still gripping mine when Thomas abruptly said that he had to go. If possible, he’d stop by to check on me tomorrow night, after he was done teaching. Those next long hours, sleepless and hurting, and all the next day, groggy and hurting, I decided to join him in his work. Not someday, somewhere. But here, now. I’ll teach. Next night, I told Thomas of my desire. “Surely you could use some help. Assuming you’ll take me on without a certificate,” I added, knowing full well Thomas doesn’t have a certificate himself. He rolled his eyes, said that was the least of his concerns. His biggest concern was my recuperation. “When you’re better, you’ll know where to find me, Ruth.” He was terse; he’s been terse with me all week. But he said yes, in so many words.
His yes, and all that I’m learning from Silvia, along with her ministrations, have provided a kind of balm, tempering, at least for now, the intractable reality of my expulsion from Union University and the reason behind it: Tobias’s betrayal and, worse, far worse, my naïveté.
I go back inside. Still in my nightgown, I sit down at the table with Silvia. My appetite has returned; my mouth waters at the sight and smell of the steaming food on our plates. Silvia says a brief prayer in Spanish. She’s told me she only prays in Spanish; she only dreams in Spanish as well. “Cristo, pan de vida, ven y bendice esta comida.” Christ, the bread of life, come and bless this food. Each time she prays this prayer, in the language that is slowly revealing itself to me, I am struck by the expansiveness of God, who receives all languages, all people, as His own. I never fully understood this before I sat down at Silvia’s table.
“Amen,” we say in unison. In this word, only our different accents separate us.
IN THE EARLY afternoon, Silvia and I walk slowly to the shallow, rocky river that borders Kirk Camp. She carries a basket of dirty laundry; I carry a box of soap flakes and a washboard. This is my first real outing since my arrival. Silvia reluctantly agreed that I could join her for this chore; she’d much prefer I were resting on my cot. But I pleaded with her. “After seven days of rest, I’m going stir-crazy,” I said. “That’s a sign you’ve done me some good. I must be recovering or I wouldn’t be champing at the bit like this.”
I follow her up a hill. From here we can see much of Kirk Camp—nearly twenty acres, Silvia says, bordered on the other three sides by two-lane roads. Beyond, the San Gabriel Valley spreads.
Silvia points at sheets of tin glinting in the far distance. “That’s Cooper Camp, another Mexican barrio. There’s competition between Kirk and Cooper. We think we are the best camp, both of us. We both have big festivals and concerts given by our musicians. Only we elect a May Day queen. They don’t.” Silvia smiles. “They elect a Harvest Moon queen. Otherwise we are much the same. Our roads are dirt, our houses made of scraps. We don’t have sewers or streetlights or trash collection. We give a good portion of our wages back to the farmers who pay us and own the land on which we live. This binds us together more than the competition divides. Cooper Camp is part of our family. No matter what the Anglo newspapers say, we share with each other—food, money, whatever is needed—rather than go on relief. It’s a matter of pride, a matter of dignity. El oro y el moro.”
“The gold. . .” That’s as far as I can get.
“And the glory,” Silvia translates. “That’s what we were promised by the farm owners when we were invited to leave Mexico and work here. As you see, there’s not any gold. There’s not much glory. But we do the work no one else wants to do, and we are proud of our work. We are grateful to do it.” She presses her hand to her belly. “For our children, if nothing else.”
My head hurts again. The hike is taking its toll; I’m having a hard time keeping track of what Silvia is saying.
“You’re out of breath, Ruth.”
I try to smile. “I’m fine. I’ve been sitting at a desk these last months, that’s all, and then resting like some fancy lady at your place. Look at you, the weight you’re carrying! I have nothing to complain about.”
We stand at the riverbank now. There are other people working here as well—elderly women doing wash, as the younger women of Kirk Camp are busy in the fields. Children too young to be picking fruit—it’s strawberry
season, Silvia has told me—play in the shallows. I’d venture none of these children is older than three or four. Some are new to walking, unsteady on their feet. There are babies, too, carried by the old women in slings on their backs. The women who notice me stare at me as if I’m a ghost. Indeed, I feel ghostly in my white skin. I’m the only white person here. But then they see Silvia, and her presence seems to relieve them. They turn back to their work.
Silvia swings the basket to the ground, lowers herself to sit on a fallen log, and wraps her arms around her middle. The sunlight glances harshly off the water. I shade my eyes with my hand. If I’m not careful, I’ll get worse. Even more so, Silvia. The blood has drained from her face. The dark shadows lurking beneath her eyes look more like bruises now. I hadn’t known she could look this spent. I hadn’t known she could be this spent. I might get a bad headache, but if Silvia’s not careful, she’ll hurt herself and the baby.
“Your turn to rest,” I say firmly.
Before Silvia can protest, I lug the basket to the riverbank, weaving my way carefully through the many articles of clothing spread on rocks to dry in the sun. I’ve never washed clothes in a river. I’ve used a washtub, yes. A wringer, yes. Clotheslines, yes. But none of these things is here. Only a sluggish river and the stony bank beside it. I glance furtively at the other women and follow their lead. Kicking off my shoes, hitching my skirt a little higher, I take an article of clothing from the basket—one of Luis’s shirts, so dirty it’s gone stiff, as Charlie’s clothes used to do—wade out a bit into the river, and dunk the shirt under the water. The water is more tepid than cold, and I remember Thomas’s sister, Grace, and the typhus she contracted. I won’t think about that, as no one else seems to be. Even thinking about that is a luxury. I stir the shirt in the water, then lift it out, slosh back to the riverbank, and shake soap flakes from the box onto the wet fabric. The other women scrub and beat their wet things against the rocks in the river’s shallows. Their work makes a steady, shushing sound as back and forth the garments go. When a piece of clothing comes down like a whip, drops of water fly, through which the little children purposefully run, their clothing clinging to their bodies like a wet second skin. They remind me of puppies, or more, river otters, in their play. I practice with Luis’s shirt, cracking it down on the water’s surface, and soon I’m sending out sprays of water, too. The children run my way, dashing through drops and the prisms cast by the sun. My heart lifts with their laughter. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to make someone happy.
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