“I’m afraid my afternoon is already scheduled,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Graciela glared at Alicia but didn’t say anything.
Unsure whether she should turn and leave or wait for Graciela and Raúl to exit the pew, Alicia shifted from one foot to the other in the narrow space.
“There you are, Jimmy!” Graciela launched herself from the pew and slipped her arm into that of a young man in a soldier’s uniform. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Oh. Hi, Graciela.”
She didn’t look back as she led her captive from the church.
Raúl’s large grin signaled his relief.
“What are you doing today that kept you from Graciela’s clutches?” she asked as they made their way out of the pew.
“I’m taking you to brunch. If you’re free, that is.” A frown crossed his forehead.
This was her chance to get to know him better.
“Let me see if my grandmother can watch Luis, but I would love to have brunch with you.” Her voice was more confident about the decision than her nerves.
Raúl chatted with other parishioners, a half smile on his face, as she checked in at home. After she hung up, she nodded.
He shook hands with several of the men he’d been talking to. “I’ve got a hankering for the Cowboys Corner Cafe. Sound good to you?”
“Yes.”
“Let me drive. I’ll bring you back to your car.”
Being in close confines was a step she hadn’t anticipated, but it’s what most people did when they went on a date, wasn’t it?
The problem was, she’d never been on a real date.
“Okay.”
He opened the passenger door of his Jetta and waited for her to get in.
Old-fashioned, like many Latino men. Would he have the possessive macho traits many shared as well?
The narrow space between them shimmered with heat, but their conversation sputtered like a water-doused fire. She was relieved when they arrived at the nondescript, gray building.
A bright orange and black sign featured seven cowboys on horseback—a throwback to times when southern Santa Cruz County held more than concrete and strawberry and artichoke fields.
“I hear the food here is very, very good,” Raúl said as he escorted her into the interior.
The light touch of his hand on her back sent a thrill racing neck and neck with her heart’s pulse.
The furniture in the cafe was simple: plain, brown tables and black lacquer chairs with red cushions. A few faded black-and-white photos contrasted with bright Mexican crafts and handmade drawings by local schoolchildren.
“Coffee?” The waitress, a twenty-something woman with dark, glossy hair piled on her head and gold hoop earrings swinging from her ears, paused at their table.
“Absolutely,” Raúl said.
“Is this your first time here?” the waitress asked.
They nodded.
“Everything here is big portions, so keep that in mind. Our specialty is our homemade cinnamon buns. I’ll give you a few more moments to decide.”
Alicia studied the menu. In addition to the normal array of omelets, pancakes, and waffles, there were scrambles, burgers, and sandwiches. The Branding Iron, an omelet made with spinach, tomatoes, mushrooms, green onions, avocado, and cheese, caught her eye.
“I’m having the cordon bleu,” Raúl announced.
“Not very breakfast-y.” She grinned at him.
“Was there a rule I wasn’t aware of?” His smile warmed her heart.
Lots of them. Like don’t break my heart.
“Hmmm. I suppose since it’s brunch, you’re off the hook,” she said.
“Good.”
After they placed their orders, they stared at each other for a few seconds and then chuckled.
“How are you liking your sociology class?” he asked.
“It’s interesting, but I don’t think it’s going to be easy. The first assignment is to read the text and see how it relates to your own family.”
“And?”
“The first section talks a lot about a nuclear family—like lots of Anglos have. It doesn’t look anything like my family.”
“Mine either.” He sipped his coffee. “It’s an illusion that every Anglo family is perfect, just like it’s a stereotype that every Latino family is dysfunctional. That’s part of the point of sociology. What’s the truth? How does your family really differ from two parents with two-point-five children? More importantly, what’s the same?”
“You sound like my teacher.”
“Sorry. Old habits from medical school. Years of writing papers that compared and contrasted diseases. I think I had some sociology and psychology classes in there, too.” He tilted his head, as if trying to remember. “It’s lost in the blur of lack of sleep.”
“Hot plates.” The waitress slid steaming piles of food in front of them, including a huge cinnamon bun, oozing with syrup and nuts.
Conscious of the other person at the table, Alicia briefly folded her hands and sent a prayer of thankfulness for their meal heavenward. She glanced at Raúl.
He was smiling. “Some habits are good. In fact ...” He repeated her gesture with the earnestness of a young boy.
His effort soothed her angst. Maybe this dating thing would turn out okay.
She bit into the veggie-filled omelet. She savored the creamy concoction for several seconds.
Raúl’s eyes were closed, and a hint of a smile played around his lips.
“I enjoy my food,” he said after opening his eyes. “When you don’t have enough growing up, every bite becomes like manna from heaven.” He gestured to the chicken oozing with cheese on his plate. “And when it’s this good, I know what’s on the other side of the pearly gates.”
She laughed, amazed it came so easily. There was no pretense, putting on an act, or releasing tension, just the light expulsion of air, like the baby’s laugh creating James Barrie’s fairies in Peter Pan.
She forked another piece of omelet into her mouth, her gaze never leaving Raúl’s, and chewed slowly. As she did, something shifted in the room—innocence morphing into an unspoken knowledge of profound pleasure—joy that was more than sex.
Eduardo had always pushed her to go further, release one more piece of clothing, allow him to touch another inch of her body. She hadn’t wanted it, but back then she’d thought it was what girls had to do to keep a man.
“What are you thinking?” Raúl asked her.
“How good this is.”
“The meal or the company?”
Trapped.
“Both.”
“I agree.” He smiled, and the balm to her injured heart grew stronger.
After a few seconds of silence, he pushed his plate slightly toward her. “Would you like some?”
“A tiny bit. And try some of this omelet. It’s amazing!”
“You were explaining about your sociology assignment,” he said when they’d finished exchanging food.
“What did you want to know?”
“Why is your family different from a nuclear family?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked.
“It’s not even common anymore. You’ve got Luis and your grandmother.” His voice softened. “What about your parents?”
“My mother lives in Los Banos. My father died when I was a little girl.” Not the whole truth but enough for now. Part of the reason to escape Los Banos had been to leave the rumors of adultery behind.
But what if Graciela told him?
Better he hear it from Alicia.
“My father was a married man. He’d known my mother before he met his wife. They met again and things just happened.”
Betrayal’s knife plunged through her gut. When she’d learned she wasn’t her father’s only daughter, shame had forced her head down, and she’d lost her way.
“Did he divorce his wife?”
“No. He kept two families. His real wife, Elizabeth, onl
y found out when my mother sought help from her for me.”
“Why would your mother do that?”
“She was desperate. I was defiant, pregnant, and alone. I think she needed me to face reality. I don’t know what she expected from Elizabeth. She’s never said.” She needed him to think she was over the feelings of despair and disappointment in herself. And she was.
Mostly.
“It was a lapse in judgment. Now I’m getting back on track.”
“I see.” He paused, as if assimilating the information into the picture he was forming of her. “Did Elizabeth help you?”
“She hired me for the day spa and shop in Costanoa.”
“Ah. She’s your boss. That means she works with you every day. Wow. She must be a remarkable woman.”
“She is.” Elizabeth had shown her more than kindness. She’d accepted her as a member of the family. In turn, Alicia had been able to reach out to Sarah.
How could she possibly explain all of this to her sociology class? Yours, mine, and ours didn’t begin to cover it.
She glanced up at a photograph on a nearby wall. A group of people, their clothes worn, stood in front of a small house. Beyond that was a building that had to be an outhouse. From that small encampment, land stretched empty to the distant mountains.
“They look very poor,” she said.
“Most farmworkers are.” There was no rancor in Raúl’s voice. He merely stated a fact. He took another bite of his chicken, again closing his eyes to savor it. The expression of a man who’d known true hunger.
She cut the cinnamon roll in two and put half on his plate. “Was your family as poor?”
His eyes opened. “We were farmworkers.” He gestured to the picture. “Yeah. Pretty much like that.” He pressed his lips together.
“Are your parents still alive?” His family appeared to be closer to the nuclear family than hers could ever be, but she’d never known what it meant to skip a meal or not have Christmas.
“In a manner of speaking.” Raúl’s voice had become more guarded.
She’d let him in on the biggest secret of her life, and he was going to pull back? Maybe she’d overestimated his interest. “Look. If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s fine with me.”
“No. No. It’s just that ...” He took a sip of coffee. “It’s painful to talk about it.”
His sorrow permeated the air around him, and she glimpsed the wounded boy beneath the professional man.
“Will there be anything else?” The waitress stood poised at the table.
Raúl glanced at Alicia. “Let’s take a walk.”
“Just a short one.” She needed to get back to Luis, but she didn’t want to let this shimmering moment pass out of existence.
“Can we get the bun to go?”
The waitress nodded, tore off the ticket, and placed it face down on the table. “You can pay at the register.”
• • •
Raúl drove to a park by one of Watsonville’s sloughs, a place familiar to him from some of his photo-taking jaunts. The edge of an ache in his temples kept time with the soft sound of music from the radio.
Alicia was quiet.
Egrets and herons stalked the low water, while ducks loudly voiced their opinions on the status of local affairs. A long-limbed tree caressed the ground by a park bench. In the distance, Highway 1 separated the slough from its parent waters in the bay, except where drainage pipes still allowed the salt water to mix with the fresh.
The uneasy mesh of two ecosystems rich with life.
He took her hand, and she didn’t pull away. They walked the path in silence. She seemed to know he needed time to gather his thoughts.
Finally, he led her to the bench overlooking the ocean.
“When I grew up, the farmworkers’ community was small. We all seemed to be related to each other. Families were big. The more hands, the more money we could make. I was pressed into work at three or four, pushing cotton into long bags. Whatever money we made went into the family coffers. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough. If it rained, we couldn’t work. If the harvest was bad, or an early freeze came, there was nothing to pick.”
The bleakness of the memory saddened him.
“Every family had their own garden, chickens, rabbits, and sometimes a pig. We tried to make do. Christmases were slim at best. Sometimes we depended on charity—good folks who dropped off bags of beans and rice to see us through the bad times.”
He stretched his arm along the top of the bench and touched her shoulder, the pain of long-ago hunger needing the connection of human heat before it would lessen.
“There were four boys in our family. Juan, the oldest, is nine years older than me. The twins, Jorge and Javier, are seven years older. They were six and eight when my parents brought them across the border to seek a new life.”
A flock of squawking seagulls landed in the slough with a splash.
“I was born here, an unexpected arrival. Most of the kids I grew up with were illegals. A few of us had that important piece of paper—an American birth certificate, but our families were always in danger.” He clasped his hands together and gathered strength to continue. “Anti-immigration fever comes in waves. For long periods of time, everyone has an unspoken agreement never to reveal the truth. Then someone feels the need to prove a point, and things like Prop 187 happen—denying health and education to the people who work long hours in the fields to provide cheap produce to the country.”
“Or the recent wave of deportations.” Alicia’s voice was quiet.
“Sí.”
The noises of nature filled the silence between them. She shifted a little closer to him and put her hand on his fisted hands. “It must have been difficult.”
Even though the memories were fourteen years old, they were as sharp as if events had occurred the night before.
“A property dispute between two landowners,” he choked out. “The greedy bastards escalated their fight through any means they deemed necessary. Without thinking it through, one of them called immigration. My parents, my brothers, all hauled away in a matter of hours.” A tear slipped from his eye, and he brushed it away.
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“What happened to you?”
He gathered her hand in between his. This was the bad part. Not only had he lost his family, but he’d lost all the love he’d ever known. Should he even plant the image of such evil in her mind?
He released her hand and walked to the edge of the water. Nature could be cruel, but few animals hurt each other for the pleasure it brought.
A slim hand slipped back into his.
He didn’t look at Alicia. Instead, he stared inward at the stinking hovel that had been his aunt and uncle’s home.
“My mother’s sister and her husband had escaped the deportation because they’d gone to a different field to pick. My mother told me to go to them, explain what had happened, and ask for a place to live. She was sure her sister would take me in.”
“And did they?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” He took a deep breath. “My uncle was a mean drunk. It’s common for men who work in the fields to drink a lot of beer every night while the women work in the kitchen.” He shrugged. “Old Mexican culture hanging on? Their bodies aching from constant labor? Who knows?”
Dropping her hand, he pulled a leaf from a nearby tree and tossed it into the water, watching it drift toward the open water. “Tide’s going out.”
“Yes.”
They walked farther down the path, closer to the close-packed reeds and cattails. He stopped and grasped her hands.
“I don’t know what it is about you, but I feel like I can tell you anything.” His gaze drifted to her lips. Desire pushed past all the reasons not to act. He leaned forward and took her lips in his, savoring their taste. All the kisses he’d ever shared faded away, nothing in comparison to the gentleness of Alicia’s lips.
Her lips softened under h
is.
He pulled her sweetness and youth into him, trying to erase memory’s ash. Calls from shorebirds overlay the lapping of water through the high reeds, wrapping them in a bubble of safety.
What was he doing? He broke off the kiss. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” He turned back to the water and ran his fingers through his hair. “I need to get you back to the church.” Not knowing what else to do, he strode in the direction of his car, trusting she’d follow.
When they’d settled into their seats, she touched his arm, the warmth of her hand radiating through his skin.
“Look at me.”
He wanted to drive, to get away from the inevitable hurt when she realized how damaged he was, just like Meghan had. Reluctantly, he faced her.
“I may be only eighteen, but I get to make my own decisions. If I want to risk being with you, then that’s my choice.” She tilted her head. “Unless that’s not what you want.”
“I do want to see you. I’m just ... concerned ...”
She touched his lips with her finger. “Neither one of us knows where this journey will lead. Let’s take it one day at a time.”
He nodded. He was crossing into waters that were uncharted for him, no matter how familiar they were to others in the human race.
Chapter 8
“How has your week been?” Carol Eos asked Alicia. “What’s happened?”
A million things.
“I got my first paper back in sociology. She gave me a B. Lots of suggestions for improvement, but still—a B!” For the first time since she’d gotten pregnant, she’d focused on her schoolwork.
“Good for you!”
A pinch of pride slipped into her psyche. It had been the hardest paper she’d ever written. Raúl’s questions had started her down the right path.
“What else?” the coach asked. “How about your other class?”
“It’s okay.”
“Only okay?”
“All right. It’s boring. Too many numbers. I mean, I’m good enough at it, but it doesn’t excite me.”
“So what do you want to do about that?”
“Nothing. What can I do? I need business classes if I’m going to manage the spa and store.”
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