Blood Orange

by Brenda Spalding

  "That's what I’m saying. He should have fought me, made some excuse, put me off, but nothing. I'll call Doc Winter at lunch and make that appointment. I don’t know, maybe I just finally got through to him. I’m not sure what to think, arrrrgh!” Nora stood, kissed the top of Rosita's head and raced out the door.

  She bounded down the steps, two at a time, just as Gramps was pulling the jeep around in the yard. Chickens scattered everywhere. "Wait for me," she called after him.

  Gramps stopped the jeep in a cloud of dust. "Come on, then," he said slapping the seat beside him. As she opened the door, Rex, a royal mongrel of indeterminate breed, jumped in front of her, and into the back seat.

  "Oh no," Nora said trying to coax the dog out.

  "Let him be, Nora," Gramps said gently. "He just wants to go for the ride. He'll wander back on home in a bit."

  They rode to the packing house in awkward silence. Nora was bewildered. Gramps had acquiesced to sharing duties and agreed to go to the doctor, but somehow she was more concerned about what was really going on with him.

  A ruckus had developed in the area where the crews dropped off their loads. Several workers had surrounded Tito and were crowding him in an aggressive manner.

  Nora jumped out of the jeep as it still rolled, and ran to insert herself between them.

  "Stop this now," she barked. "What's the problem here?"

  A worker named Rita shouted, "He's still not giving us a correct count."

  "You can’t count, you ignorant bitch," Tito hollered back. Nora, sandwiched between them, struggled to hold them apart as Rita took a wild swing at Tito, just over Nora's shoulder.

  "Rita is right. He's been cheating us all season," Javier, Rita's husband, exclaimed. Shouts and yells from the gathering crowd all affirmed that they, too, thought Tito was cheating them.

  "We are all agreed. Either he gets our counts right, or we all move on to some other job," Javier had started to simmer down, but was still livid. "We’ve all lost money since coming here. If he is here next season, I swear, we will not be, not a one of us!"

  "Tito, in the office," Nora said firmly, hoping to defuse the stand-off.

  "I don't listen to you," Tito snarled, showing her his back. "You are not my boss."

  "Wrong, Tito! As of this very moment, Nora is your boss," Gramps made his declaration while pacing across the raised platform. "Listen up, everyone, please!" he shouted, facing his loyal workers. "Nora is, from now on, in charge of all operations at this packing house.

  “Tito, we will find out if you’ve been cheating, or if you just can't count." Gramps removed his hat, pulled a wrinkled red bandana from a pocket in his overalls, and mopped the sweat off his reddened face.

  Nora was stunned. Rita looked at her and shrugged an intimate smile. She was as pleasantly surprised as Nora. The pack of workers turned away and whispered among themselves—confused.

  "Tito, you go with Nora as she asked, please. I’ll be with you both in a minute," Gramps directed. "Javier, walk with me."

  Nora and Tito entered the back office, the tension palpable. Nora, assuming Gramps’ reign, took her place behind the big desk, settling decisively in the worn leather armchair that had represented her grandfather’s seat of power since she was a child. The fit was perfect, she thought. Tito sat heavily in a chair across from her, stretching out his small frame to lounge, splayed out in the chair. His condescending body language was silently shouting that he didn't give a crap what she had to say.

  "Guess you're going to believe the pickers," he began. "I bet half of ’em are illegal. How about I call INS and have their papers checked?"

  Nora startled him by firing back. "Don't threaten me, Tito. You best pray I don’t call the police, and have you investigated for theft.”

  "Theft? Are you crazy, girl?" Tito shot up straight from the rickety chair. "I'm not stealing from nobody. And if the count is off once in a while, just who am I stealing from?" Nervous sweat beaded on his face as he blustered, suggesting his dirty dealing. Tito was digging a hole for himself and didn't even know it.

  "You're stealing from the workers," she insisted. "They deserve to be paid in total for the back-breaking work they do. If you put money in your pocket that rightfully belongs to them, you are stealing." Nora was astounded that Tito assumed his oily actions would be tolerated.

  "You can't be serious." Tito realized his mistake much too late, and now tried to bluff his way out of it.

  "I'm deadly serious," Nora said moving to the front of the desk. Bracing her back against it, she locked her hands firmly before her, challenging him. "You tally the next count right, or you are out of here, for good. The ticket book and the tally sheets must always match, to the nickel, the nickel."

  Standing nearly toe-to-toe with Nora, trying to intimidate her, Tito bullied, "If you were a man, I'd have to knock you out."

  "If you were a real man, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

  "Merida," he muttered, shouldering past her, and leaving the office.

  Gramps came in as Tito stamped out, "Guess that went well?"

  "He is up to something with the counts. He almost admitted it." Nora perched herself at the edge of the desk to let Gramps assume his post. "What did you and Javier talk about?"

  "I'm going to give Tito just enough rope to hang himself. He thinks he's so damn cunning. I've asked Javier to quietly count all the loads before they even leave the grove. At the end of the week, I'll compare what he has, and what Tito has entered in the books. When, and if, they don't match, we’ll have our answer. I’ll summon the sheriff while Tito is still here with his hands in the cookie jar. I won't have him running off to cheat someone else."

  "Sounds like a masterful plan," Nora smiled appreciatively, slipping off the edge of the desk. "Now, you want to give me something to do? Let me make some of those phone calls for you, maybe round us up a healthy young bull. I'm acquainted with some of the stud ranches out near Arcadia.

  Gramps drew open a rusting file drawer, and began rummaging for his notes.

  Nora, grabbing a phone and phonebook, practically skipped across the office to clear a place for her to work. The tiny space she’d begun to arrange just the way she liked it, felt like the start of something big for her—momentum. She was finally planting her own flag, on her own Everest. Turning back toward her grandfather, she queried. "Now, who do I call for cattle prices?"

  Gramps snickered, "I guess you still need me for something," as he offered her a dog-eared spiral notebook. "Look under cattle brokers. Most ranches are listed by county. Try to find something close by that we can both go look at."

  Chapter Three

  Nora was increasingly proud of herself as she assumed more control of the company. She’d spent the last week organizing her new office space and preparing for the hard tasks ahead. She found an old slate-top school master’s desk, a slightly dented and somewhat rusted filing cabinet to match Gramps’, and a tall oak bookcase—crowned with tarnished brass gargoyle bookends. She was amazed at what one could find in the Salvation Army thrift shop in town.

  Dusting away the cobwebs and watching for spiders, she paused to laugh at herself. She might be a genuine country girl, but creepy crawlies still scared her like city folk. She made files for the cabinet, compiled her own phone directory, and created a checklist for what she needed to do.

  "Gramps, remember we have your doctor's appointment on Monday. We best leave here at noon sharp, to make it to Arcadia on time. If you’re a good patient, I'll buy you a black-cherry walnut ice cream cone," she said, as a joke, but was in fact, trying to gauge his reaction.

  "I'll remember," he muttered into his shirt. "I wrote it down in my calendar. Now," he sighed, "we have to look at the two counts and see if there is any difference between Tito and Javier. I hope I regret saying this, but I’m betting there will be a substantial difference. I’m not looking forward to any confrontation."

  "It will be fine, either way. We need to find out what's really g
oing on and try to get to the bottom of this mess between Tito and the workers," Nora responded.

  "O.K., let's go then and get it over with," Gramps said, struggling to his feet. He saw Nora watching him, concerned. "Don't pity me, Nora,” he huffed.

  "Pity? I didn't say a word."

  "Your face sure did. I'm just stiff from sitting too long," he insisted, walking torturously from the small office and toward the packing floor.

  "We'll see what the doctor has to say about it Monday," Nora murmured, not loud enough that he could hear her, and then, following him through the door thought, “God forbid, he admits he might have a bit of arthritis at his age.”

  "Tito," Gramps called out, "Please bring me the count for the week."

  "What do you want that for?" Tito asked, challenging him. "I already sent it to payroll."

  "I called payroll and told them to hold it for me," Gramps said, anticipating the argument to come. "I want to see your tally sheets for each specific day. Now, Tito."

  "I thought Nora was in charge? Shouldn't I be giving them to her?" he questioned sarcastically.

  "Okay Tito, I can play that game," Nora said heatedly. "Give the tally sheets to my grandfather now. That is an order from your new boss."

  Tito glared at her. He despised taking orders, and even more so, despised taking them from a woman. The tally sheets and ticket books were on a stand-up desk at the front of the loading bay. Tito strode over, and clutching the papers, shoved them defiantly at the older man, "Here, this is everything, just as I have always done them. I do know how to count, you know. And I don't like being treated as a child," he spat, aware that several of the workers were gathered whispering on the platform, and on the ground below. Tito, his nervous guilt getting the best of him, squinted over his shoulder at the group shuffling around behind him, his eyes shifting side to side, as if preparing an escape route.

  Gramps, reaching into his back pocket, produced the tally Javier had taken of all the baskets while still in the grove, before the oranges were transported to the packing house.

  Shaking his head, Tito stared at his shoes, knowing his numbers were fictitious. He knew he’d been had, and his mind scrambled, trying to come up with any excuse that might save his skin.

  "I've had someone checking the loads in the fields, before they came back to the packing house," Gramps announced—as if all the workers didn't already know.

  He studied both sets of tally sheets, as Tito tried to sneak off the floor, blocked by a few male workers. He’d witnessed the local sheriff exit his patrol car after it had pulled into the yard, and that man was now walking toward the crowd.

  "Tito, when I went to school, 2+2 still equaled four, and I’m pretty damn sure you need glasses as well. Mister, I can count!” Gramps exclaimed. “Every day, you are under-counting different workers—a load here, a load there. By my simple reckoning, you've scammed us a hundred loads this week alone. More so, you were warned about short-counting these workers. How stupid and greedy can you be?"

  The few workers who had cut off Tito’s escape grabbed him roughly by the arms. "We can take care of him, Mr. Hollister," one promised. Some in the crowd had ax handles, and one carried a make-shift noose.

  Tito was terrified, "You cannot turn me over to them, Mr. Hollister, please, they will kill me," Tito implored, begging for his life. Gone was the coarse bravado he’d shown moments before.

  "Sorry, Mr. Hollister," a tall and unyielding county sheriff interjected, prying Tito from the arms of his would-be tormentors. "I'll take him from here." In one adroit motion, he spun Tito around, and after forcing his hands behind his back, unceremoniously slapped handcuffs on his shaking wrists, ratcheting them tight in humiliation. "I'm sure he will enjoy some ‘quality time’ in the county jail waiting for the judge to finish his monthly rounds."

  One of the men, a big Mexican named Octavio, spoke up, "No judge for this one. We shall be judge, jury and Verdugo for the dog that cheats his own kind. We make our own justice in the fields."

  "I can't let you do that, as much as I’d like to," the sheriff instructed the men—resting his palm on the handle of the .44 holstered at his side to emphasize his point.

  The workers reluctantly let the sheriff take over and do his job. Of course, they'd had other, more permanent plans for Tito, and they grumbled bitterly as they slowly backed off.

  "Nice to meet you, Mr. Hollister," the sheriff said politely. “Miss Hollister,” he said, nodding a greeting while tipping his hat to Nora, “I'm Sheriff Gabe McAllister. I took over for Sheriff Grady after he retired last month."

  "Nice to meet you . . . too,” Nora stumbled like a shy school girl over her words. The sheriff was a ruggedly handsome man, and well mannered, no doubt about it.

  "Well, I’d better get this guy back." He raised his Stetson with one hand and held onto Tito with the other. "You, get." He pulled Tito toward his patrol car, and not too gently, forced him into the back seat.

  Nora watched him get into the driver's seat and pull out of the yard. She stood, hands in her pockets, thinking, “My, my things are suddenly a tad more interesting around here."

  Chapter Four

  The following Sunday morning saw the sun rising in clouds of purple and pink, promising a perfect day ahead. A stiff west breeze stirred the sandy ground—creating dust-devils that danced like dervishes among the devout families who were gathering in celebration for an early Mass.

  Father Miguel Lopez arrived promptly at 7:00 a.m. to begin Catholic services for his flock, most of whom were field workers.

  Nora's great-grandfather had built a small wooden chapel on the grounds near the worker's compound. Rosita and Hector had been married there, along with countless other couples over the decades. Sky-blue shutters fixed to cast-iron hinges on the outside window frames could be opened or closed, according to the day’s weather. Today, they were open on all sides to let the morning’s refreshingly cool breeze flow through.

  Ancient, old-growth oak trees towered over benches and picnic tables hand-hewn in place by Nora’s great-grandfather to provide an oasis shaded from the sun. Families gathered in this treasured shade to talk of things other than hard work, and to care for their beloved children as they played. Sunday was always a day off on the Hollister Farm. Not all commercial groves honored this, the Lord's Day.

  Nora and Gramps arrived just as Father Miguel was beginning the Mass. The good padre traveled between several groves—often over great distance—serving the mostly Catholic migrant workers to baptize a newborn infant or perform the marriage of a young couple, sometimes both on the same day.

  On these special occasions, the other workers would organize a small fiesta to celebrate. Rainbow-colored lantern lights would be festooned upon the grand old oaks, and an entire pig or cow would be barbecued over a large open pit in the ground. Guitars and bajo sexton would appear, played by the elderly men who could no longer work the fields. The joyous sounds of music and dancing would fill the air, and for a while, clichés notwithstanding, all troubles could disappear in that magical moment.

  Nora found the Latin liturgy of the Mass soothing. During the reading of the gospel, her mind wandered off subject to the new sheriff's startling blue eyes and thick black hair. She recalled him standing there—tall, dark and handsome. He had a small scar running from the corner of his left eye to his hairline. She wondered where he had gotten it. Was he still a boy then? Was he injured doing something heroic?

  Gramps liked to shake hands with the workers as they left chapel to show appreciation for their loyalty and hard work. He stood beside the priest and greeted the workers as they filed past, smiling and addressing them by name.

  Hector Sanchez, Rosita's husband, stopped to talk to his employer. "Pardon for me, Mr. Hollister," he began, twisting a well-worn straw hat in his hands. "May I ask who will be doing the counting in the packing house now that Tito is gone?"

  "I thought I might offer you the job," Gramps said. "You know the workers best, and they re
spect you. You already work well with the cattle, but they shouldn’t take so much of your time that you cannot assume this important duty, a duty of trust. Let me know tomorrow morning if you’ve decided to accept it, or not. There will be a small raise in it for you." After some parting words, the men firmly shook hands, leaving Hector to run and catch up to his anxious wife.

  "Who did he choose?" Rosita begged—her curiosity palpable. Of course, she’d been the one who prompted him to ask in the first place.

  "He said that the job was mine if I wanted it. Ay, a big decision," Hector mused, twisting his hat while alternately running his fingers restlessly through his salt-and-pepper hair.

  "What's to think about? Of course, you want it! You better think fast," Rosita said slyly. "I don't think your hat will last, if you take too long."

  "Very funny," he returned, slapping his hat on his head. Arms linked in spousal confidence, they strolled among the venerable trees, greeting friends as they made their way to the little home reserved just for them. Since they were permanent staff, and not migrant, their house was bigger and had been maintained better than the others. Rosita had planted fragrant flowers in a box Hector had built for her, and mounted under the front window so their perfume could waft into the small living room on warm evenings. He had broken and tilled a small plot of ground behind their home where Rosita cultivated a small vegetable garden. Tomatoes and zucchini were her favorites. These vegetables, her labor of love, often found their way to the Hollister table.

  Nora, after talking with many of the workers, joined Gramps and Father Miguel.

  "The workers want to find out who is going to replace Tito," she inquired.

  "I told Hector he can have the job, if he wants it. He's a hard worker and admired by the workers," Gramps added.

  A billowing red cloud of dust advanced—cloaking the road and catching Nora's attention. "I wonder who that could be," Nora said, pointing her chin in the direction of a sheriff’s patrol car approaching—as her heart skipped like a school-girl waiting for a prom invitation. She wanted it to be Gabe McAllister, but at the same time, in contradiction to herself, hoped it wasn't.