Stars Always Shine

by Rick Rivera

  After further deliberation, Mitch, through Place, told Salvador to get ready for the interview. She sent Place to accompany Salvador to his small house to help him pick out something appropriate to wear. From a cardboard box, Salvador pulled out a fairly new pair of jeans—at least they were clean and not too faded, with very few holes. He also grabbed a clean T-shirt. The rest of the box contained assorted socks, briefs, T-shirts, and a hooded Sonoma State University sweatshirt. When Place asked Salvador where the rest of his clothes were, he pointed to his cardboard box. Since Salvador’s house had running water only in the kitchen sink, Mitch and Place advised him to take a shower in their home.

  As Salvador showered, Mitch handed Place one of his good shirts and told him to hang it in the bathroom. She took a pair of Place’s dress shoes—hardly worn because Place did not dress up for many functions—wiped the dust off them, and instructed her husband to deposit them in the bathroom too.

  Salvador was sweating nervously as he squeezed his wide foot into Place’s dress shoes. He tucked in his shirt and combed his hair straight back. Place knocked on the bathroom door. In his concern for things to proceed smoothly, he thought about the times he was getting ready to make his first Holy Communion or confirmation or graduating from high school and his mother instructed and waited in urgent anticipation. Salvador opened the door slowly and shyly, feeling awkward in the shiny black shoes and crisp, clean shirt.

  “Wow!” Place exclaimed, “¡Sua-ve-ci-to, hombre! Estás listo para ser americano,” and he smiled widely.

  Salvador blushed, wondering if indeed he was ready to become an American, and shifted uneasily. Mitch came to the bathroom door, seeming a bit nervous herself and trying to conceal it. She looked at Salvador and with her hands made fists with both thumbs up. “We’re ready. I’m going to drive him down there. You can start on the fence so we don’t fall behind in our chores. Tell him not to be nervous. He’s going to do fine.”

  Mitch was back in minutes. She walked over to where Place was painting the long stretch of fence where it bordered Sweet Wine Road. As she approached, he could see that her face showed a concern that seemed to drain her expression of the sure confidence that he was so used to in her, and had never felt in himself. She could see in her husband the gloom he felt at the prospect of losing his new friend. Salvador was reminding Place and reteaching him the things that were culturally, genetically—essentially—his, but that he had lost through the process of assimilation in becoming more American than Mexican. Salvador had helped Place learn to speak Spanish more fluently, and he had even explained figurative meanings of what Place was considering his new language. When Place wanted to get the cracked windshield of his truck fixed, Salvador agreed it needed to be replaced because it was “estrellado.” Place, asking for a clearer pronunciation of the word, learned from Salvador that the windshield was “estrellado como las estrellas en la noche,” and he could see that indeed the dark night was cracked by the bright stars. Once when Salvador wanted to take a mid-morning break, he informed Place that he was only going to eat enough “para engañar a la tripa,” or just enough to deceive the intestines. On another occasion when Place asked Salvador why he was often late for dinner or other social events, Salvador explained that time was not as concrete as American thinking made it appear. Salvador was on Mexican time, and dinner at six meant dinner sometime around six. It could be six-thirty or even seven, and that should not be a problem. Place responded that he had often heard some students in college joke that they were on Chicano time. More than anything, Salvador had reminded Place about the dignity of work, that there was something honorable about the work they were doing, even if it was often dirty and hard work. It was nothing to be embarrassed about. It was productive. And that was more than could be said about many people.

  Place took long, slow, sweeping strokes of his brush, the whiteness of the paint transforming the dull, chipped fence to a glossy newness. Mitch looked over the green pastures of StarRidge Ranch and thought about the men who stood outside Grange Hall waiting for a new life. She thought about Salvador, who was the best dressed one in his odd ensemble of new shirt and shoes and worn jeans, and her thoughts turned to guilt and confusion. A significant part of why the county could boast its world-famous wines was because of the labor of men like Salvador. These ranchers and farmers wouldn’t be able to stay in business if they had to do it by themselves. Most natural-born citizens wouldn’t stoop to the level of work that these men did. None of these allegedly hard-working country people would profit much beyond personal subsistence if they didn’t have the help of the thousands that left their homeland each year for the almighty harvest season, or to work a spread for a few bucks an hour. It was always justified by the natives as an offer of something better than where these people came from. It actually justified their exploitation. And now, to offer this promise of residency with this new law. Mitch felt that deep within the labyrinth of local and state legislation there was some dirty dealing going on. A lot of favors were being exchanged, and her reprobation led her to consider the way she conducted some of her own business. The snarl of ideas forced her to grope for allowance and forgiveness. She told herself that she was resigned, even forced, by men in a man’s world to go along with this approach to be even moderately successful. But she knew too that the way wasn’t always a straight one, and she thought to herself, In today’s world, you can’t be a crusader. You’re constantly rationalizing things to yourself just so you can sleep at night.

  “Your expression is a thoughtful one,” Place said softly as he dipped his paintbrush in the tray of paint. “Maybe even a conscience one. Or is it conscious? I get those two words mixed up.”

  Mitch did not answer as she thought about how the right things were not necessarily done the right way. She felt stuck. She was bound by certain laws and regulations, but all it took was a good vocabulary and the sound and appearance of conviction in what you’re arguing to switch things all around. To make things look like their opposites. To make the guilty look like victims and the victims like perpetrators. With this new immigration law, temporary legal status for one produced legal slavery for someone else. Things were so contrived because the bottom line meant so much. Profit in one place came from loss somewhere else, and it wasn’t financially, either. Mitch drew concentric circles in the ground with the toe of her boot. “What’s that word you were explaining to me the other day when we were talking about Salvador?”

  “Parejo. It means to be honest, honorable, and on even terms with someone. That one word connotes a lot. But my understanding of the word, especially when I hear it in songs, is that there is a strong mutual respect between friends, lovers, and peers. Being parejo allows for genuine communication, even in silence. Being parejo means sincerity in relationships. Being parejo means together, like walls of resolve, you’ll hold a roof of security over each other. You and I are parejo. And we’re parejo with Salvador, and he with us.”

  For Mitch, this was a difficult concept to grasp. It was beyond her ability to believe and trust in anybody else. Frustration steeped in her mind like the percolating water of a geyser, and usually she circumvented this through fumaroles of strategic relief. But now something was different, and she wasn’t sure what it was. Mitch stared at the white lines left by Place’s painting strokes. Her eyes followed the fence as it ran west along Sweet Wine Road, and then she watched the road as it narrowed into the horizon past farms and ranches with postcard facades. “I’m going in to start dinner. We’re going to have a big supper for Salvador tonight to celebrate.”

  “What if he doesn’t make it?” Place asked with a crack in his voice.

  “Then it will be a last supper,” Mitch answered as she walked away.

  Salvador walked the last right angle as he neared StarRidge Ranch. The cool late-afternoon breeze swept his hair back and made his sweating head feel a little better. For the first time he noticed how refreshing it felt. In the truck, Place pumped the gas pedal as he wondered
how Salvador had done. He saw Salvador’s small, distant figure grow bigger as the truck approached him. Place looked to see if he could detect an expression, either happy or sad, in Salvador’s face as he pulled up to his friend. Salvador shook his head from side to side looking serious, then waved his hand in the air, holding a plastic coated card.

  “¡Me dieron un green card!” he shouted as he ran up to Place.

  Place sat stunned for a few seconds, and then jumped out of the pickup and hugged his friend hugely and shook his hand hard. “Let me see,” he said as he reached for the card.

  The residency card had Salvador’s picture on it, and an expiration date that allowed him to work for five years without having to hide or lie or feel alien. The small print said it could be renewed providing the holder of the card remained an upstanding citizen. Of course, the card did grant Salvador a new name, but it was sufficient and nobody else would know.

  During dinner, Mitch and Place wanted to hear the whole story. Salvador narrated that it was not a difficult interview at all. The interviewers only spoke Spanish a little better than Place, maybe, and he suggested that Place might find a job as an interviewer. Salvador’s fingerprints were taken and checked, and when he had to explain the name of the criminal Camilo, things became a little tense. But really, his response and his answer to the stated age on the slightly edited birth certificate were well received. The letter of recommendation that Salvador proudly submitted, created positive head nods that showed that things looked to be in order. Most of the men who were interviewed were granted residency cards that day, Salvador explained. They had to be. There are more and more grapes being planted in this county; they need us, he told Mitch and Place.

  Mitch got up from the table and took a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator. Place popped the cork and filling three glasses, they raised them in a toast to Salvador.

  “A mi cuate, el señor Salvador Camilo Sixto Cárdenas de la Vega, el nuevo americano. Que te vaya bonito, amigo,” Place said laughing before he emptied the contents of the glass into his mouth.

  “¡No, señor!” Salvador responded, “A mis amigos, la señora Meech y el mexicano, Plácido Moreno. Gracias por todo.” He stood up and bowed to his friends.

  8

  The problem with favors, Mitch thought as she drove south on Redwood Highway, was that they had the potential to create an unending cycle. It was hard to get out of granting and owing favors because one never knew when a good turn would be needed. The give-and-take of favors maintained reliable contacts, kept business relationships alive, and offered more options to situations than one would normally have. Also, favors kept the users of this system mentally sharp. To ensure that there was an equitable practice of trading, the constant evaluation of the currency of one favor against the exchange rate of another was important.

  So when Paul Legarrata contacted Mitch, it was for a favor. She knew this when she answered the phone, and his voice oozed with sentiments of longtime companionship and the significance of memory. She knew too that he had most recently granted her a favor by writing a persuasive letter of recommendation for Salvador. Now he needed her to return that gesture by helping him out with something. She was caught off guard, not by needing to return a gracious act—she respected the system well enough—but by returning it within the same week. The cattleman promised her that it was not a monumental request, and Legarrata felt that now things would be even between him and Mitch. Their friendship went too far back to dispute the balance sheet of favors and to determine exactly who was even with whom, so Mitch deemed it was most prudent to stay out of possible arrears.

  “Yeah, but just remember, Pauly boy, now you owe me one,” Mitch said as she pointed a censuring finger at him and prepared to drive off his ranch with a timid puppy.

  Paul Legarrata walked up to Mitch and resting a warm, worked hand on her arm said, “Mitchy, you know you’re going to have to watch how you do business. Slow down a little and think about your career. In this county, you don’t want the wrong people talking about you.”

  They looked at each other with knowing stares. Mitch released a silent Mona Lisa smile as Legarrata shook his head slowly. She patted the back of his hand and then gave it a firm shake before driving off and said simply, as if she were stating a fact, “You know, Pauly, I do some things in a questionable way so I won’t be questioned about how I do things. That’s how business and law are conducted.”

  It was a strange-looking little puff of fur. Most of its body was brindle in color, but there were two distinguishing markers of white: one was a goatee that blanched its lower jaw, and the other was a striped front leg. Its tail had already been docked, looking now like a grey boll of cotton. Its ears had been cut into little isosceles triangles that pointed stiffly upward from its head. Legarrata assured Mitch that she was getting a blueblood of a dog. It came papered from a lineage of intelligence and loyalty, and the reason he was giving the puppy to her was that his son had purchased the wrong breed of dog to work his cattle. Knowing Mitch’s love of animals, she was the first one Legarrata called when he found out he could not return it. And really, as he explained to Mitch, this was like a gift from him to her as much as it was a favor from Mitch to him. Before she agreed to take the dog, Mitch made sure Legarrata understood that the act was a granted favor rather than a received gift. Her balance sheet would show a positive closing figure.

  It would grow to be a large dog, and protective too. On the way to StarRidge Ranch, the puppy sat in a box on the front seat next to Mitch. It looked up at her with sad and confused eyes, then around at the strange space it now occupied, and howled all the way home like a lonely coyote.

  “What is it?” Place asked as he watched the puppy freeze in the middle of the living room like a jackrabbit that knows it’s been seen. Moments later that fear manifested in a strong stream of pee as the puppy stared back at Place.

  “It’s a puppy,” Mitch said, patting the wet carpet with paper towels. “These are really neat dogs. I’ve always wanted one.”

  “But what kind of a furry tick is it?”

  “The breed is called a Bouvier des Flandres,” she said, accentuating each word just as the French would want it. “They’re a working breed, originally from Belgium. They have a natural instinct for herding. They’re very protective, and they like to stay close to their people.”

  “And so now we’re its people, huh?”

  “Yeah. Legarrata’s son, the dense one, was supposed to buy a Queensland Heeler. But that kid doesn’t pay much attention. It’s a shame he’ll inherit that entire cattle spread someday; he’ll probably have it turned into condos—it’s easier work. Legarrata doesn’t want this dog, so he asked me to take it off his hands. The breeders wouldn’t take it back. They’re not going to give up the five hundred dollars they got for this pup. And Legarrata can afford to give these kinds of gifts.”

  “Five hundred dollars!” Place exclaimed. “Did the dog come with anything? Like a new car?”

  “Very funny,” Mitch said. “We need to think of a name for her. That’s your chore. I need to think of how we’ll keep Jacqueline and Mickey from finding out about her. I might just exercise some blackmail if I need to. If the puppy goes, we go.”

  “And what if they say fine, go?” Place asked, “Then what? Our condo is rented.”

  “Don’t worry, honey. I’ve been working some things out. Making important phone calls. The rodeo king and queen will be here tonight, and we have to communicate with them tomorrow. There’s no way around that. But I won’t take too much of their crap. If they want me to manage this place, I can do that. But I can only do it my way.”

  Place knew not to ask Mitch what she had been up to during the day. He only knew that somehow she would work things out. He knew that Legarrata wasn’t the only one she spoke with today. They could very well end up living someplace else by the time this weekend was over, or she could have Jacqueline and Mickey tuned in to ranch ways that would make everybody happy. The o
utcome could fall anywhere on the spectrum of possibilities. At times it made him uncomfortable, but he was learning that with his wife he needed to be ready for those endless possibilities that often required an open mind and quick motion.

  Place lay down on the living room floor and nudged close to the puppy as he thought of what to name her. He petted her gently and talked to her cooingly. Her eyes were deeply honest ones, and they darted from looking at Place’s face to looking around the hollow room, to growing bigger at the sight of Rosa. He realized it would take some time before the dog would relax and get used to its new family. Rosa had exhibited the same stiff reticence the first day they brought her home and for some days thereafter.

  “What should I name you, little one?” he said as he talked to the puppy. “You’re Belgian. Maybe I can give you a name that sounds European, like Jacqueline. I can call you Jackie for short. And we can say, ‘People who know her call her Jackie.’ Your eyes have a certain spark to them. They’re reserved but trifling too. There’s a hint of playfulness. I think we’ll name you Coquette.”

  Seeing the display of emotion heaped on the newcomer, Rosa came closer, sniffed at the ball of a tail, and wedged herself between Place and the puppy. She sat in a silly and rude way as she sought the same attention by pushing her nose at Place’s arm, directing it to her head or back to get the necessary loving tactile activity.