Evangelina Takes Flight

by Diana J. Noble

  “I smell roasting corn. Maybe they’re selling some outside. I’m still hungry,” I say. “Do you smell it?”

  No answer.

  I wheel around to a sea of strange faces. “Elsa?” I call. “Elsa?” I try again, louder.

  I make my way to the area Mamá directed us to, drop the suitcases against the wall, careful to place mine in the very back.

  “Elsa, Domingo?” I shout as I wade toward the center of the room.

  “Lina, over here,” Elsa calls from the spot I just left next to the suitcases.

  “Where were you? Don’t scare me like that!”

  “I’m sorry, Lina. Domingo saw a lady with a kitten, and we just had to stop. He was so tiny, just six weeks old. His name is Chacho. Isn’t that cute?”

  “Uh-huh. I need to go back and grab Enrique’s crate. Wait here, and don’t move.”

  I push through the crowd more aggressively this time, grab the crate and hustle back to Elsa and Domingo. Mamá and Enrique stand with them now.

  “The next train to Paloma is leaving sooner than I thought.” Mamá holds up the tickets. “I had to pay the man an extra ten pesos for us to get on. Many of the people here have been waiting for days, even weeks. There are so many trying to get to the United States, and there just isn’t enough room—that is unless you hand the man an extra ten pesos.” She smiles weakly.

  Enrique shrugs. “Let’s sit on the suitcases and wait. What else is there to do?”

  I turn toward the spot where I left my suitcase. “My suitcase!” I yell. “Where is it?”

  “Where did you put it down?” Mamá asks.

  “Right here with all the others! It was right here against the wall. No, no, no, this can’t be happening!”

  “Maybe you set it somewhere else close by. You and Enrique, go look for it. We’ll wait here for you,” Mamá promises.

  “Enrique, we have to find it!”

  “What’s the matter with you? You look pale,” he exclaims.

  “You don’t understand. I have to get it back!” I can’t let Abuelito down. What if the wrong people got a hold of it like he warned?

  “Okay, fine. You go that way, and I’ll go this way.”

  We head in opposite directions. My eyes dart back and forth.

  “Has anyone seen a brown suitcase with a dark brown belt around it?”

  Most people don’t answer or even look my way. Others simply shake their heads. I force my way to the ticket counter and push up to the front of the line. People shake their fists and curse at me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “You can’t do that, young lady!”

  “You little brat!”

  “Señor? Señor?” I plead. “Has anyone turned in a brown suitcase with a dark brown belt?” The man behind the counter with narrow eyes, pockmarked skin and slicked-back hair screams at me.

  “Get in line!” he bellows.

  My mother waves me toward her. She, Enrique and Elsa grab our things and walk to the rail station doublewide door. A deafening whistle blasts from the oncoming train.

  “Evangelina, hurry!” Mamá shouts. I get to the train just as its doors slide open.

  “Come on. Let’s find a seat quickly, before they all fill up,” Mamá orders.

  “Mamá! My suitcase . . . I can’t leave it behind. Please, can I look for it just another minute?”

  “Is your head filled with rocks?” Enrique spouts off. “The train is about to leave. Get on, now!”

  I turn and scan the building one last time. So many people, but no suitcase, so I hop in.

  “I lost it,” I sob to no one in particular. “Where could it have gone? I know I set it down by the other ones. Someone took it!” My nose runs.

  The train doors close, the whistle signals our departure. The railcar lurches forward, and we stumble forward.

  I turn and whisper to Elsa. “That suitcase had something important in it.”

  “What?” she asks.

  “I can’t tell you,” I whisper through trembling lips. “I promised I wouldn’t.”

  “Here,” she hands me her embroidered handkerchief. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lina, but I’m tired, and it’ll be hours before we get there. I’m sure we’ll be able to replace whatever was in that suitcase, or you’ll have to live without it.” She takes a deep breath. “All these people make me nervous. Let’s find a place to sit and rest, all right?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Thief

  May 31, 1911

  The muggy air sticks to me like paint on wood. The conductor blows the whistle again, and the clickety-clack-clickety-clack rhythm picks up underneath us. I stand in a tight huddle with my family and look across the railcar. Packed wooden benches line the outside walls under the windows, most of which are cracked, broken or missing. Two thin, look-alike unshaven men sit next to each other. Bullet belts crisscross over their torsos. They don’t strike me as dangerous, but they could have guns tucked away somewhere. I can’t guess how old they are. Maybe twenty? The skin on their faces hangs loose over high cheekbones and pointy chins. Their dusty hair needs washing and combing. The man on the left has a bloody, bandaged hand. A cane rests against the knee of the man on the right.

  A gray-haired man snores loudly next to them. His head sags over his chest, the corner of his mouth wet with drool. An empty beer bottle hangs from his limp hand.

  One woman holds a crying baby over her shoulder and pats his back; another woman cradles two girls, a baby and a toddler. There’s a gaping hole between the baby’s upper lip and nose. One tiny tooth sticks out at an odd angle from her misshapen upper gums. Poor little thing. I’ve never seen that before. How will she ever eat?

  A little boy sits with his ankles crossed and a mangofilled sombrero at his feet. He watches the mangos perhaps worried that someone will steal them?

  Some people sit in seats, others cover the floor. Many pull their shoulders and legs in tightly to make room for others, or perhaps to keep from touching the person next to them. Suitcases, baskets and bags cover people’s laps or rest between one person and the next.

  “There’s no room,” Mamá says. “Let’s move to the next railcar. Walk this way.” Mamá moves a step to the left.

  “I don’t know how we can even get to the next railcar, it’s so crowded,” Enrique comments irritably.

  “Do the best you can, and just say, ‘excuse me.’ This is going to be a long train ride. Do you want to stand here the whole time?” Mamá asks the question but uses her do-as-I-say voice.

  “No . . .”

  “Then do it,” Mamá orders.

  We search for small spaces to step into and lift our suitcases as high as we can so we don’t knock into anyone. It takes a good five minutes to make our way to the end of the rail car. I push open the door, step onto a small wooden platform, breathe in the fresh air and walk up a few steps to the door on the other side. I pull it open, step in and suck in my breath.

  “That’s my suitcase,” I tell my mother.

  “Are you sure?” Mamá whispers. “And keep your voice down. We don’t need any unwanted attention.”

  “Yes, that’s it. See the belt around it?”

  Relief and anger creep in and make my face hot. A young girl about my age is on top of my suitcase. She stares at me with innocent eyes, as if thinking, what could she be staring at? Her knee peeks through a hole in her frayed yellow and white polka dot dress. A gray shawl hangs over one shoulder and ties in a knot over the other so it drapes sideways across her chest. She sits crosslegged with a man’s well-worn boots sticking out from under her dress. Long black hair hangs loosely around her face. One side of her hair is oddly shorter than the other. Scabs and purplish swollen skin cover one arm. I look away.

  Enrique steps forward and noisily clears his throat. “Excuse me. That is my sister’s suitcase. Give it back.”

  “No,” she answers. “It’s my brother’s.”

  “That’s MY suitcase,”
I burst in.

  “Evangelina, I will handle this.” Enrique pulls his shoulders back and tries to look taller. “Look, miss, you may think that’s your brother’s suitcase, but it’s not. It’s my sister’s. I know because of the belt around it. Your brother must have picked it up accidentally, now give it back.”

  “No,” she barks.

  “Listen here!” Enrique demands. “You will do what . . .”

  “Mamá, can I sit with her?” I interrupt my brother before he makes it worse. “We can just talk.”

  “That’s a bad idea,” Enrique scowls. “You should let me handle this.”

  “It’s all right,” Mamá says. “We’ll stand right over here.” She gestures in front of her to a small space against the wall. “You call me or your brother if you need to.”

  Mamá gives me a look of confidence. My mother and siblings find their way through the bodies and stand a few meters away. Enrique glares at the girl.

  “Can I sit here with you?” I ask. “Next to the suitcase?”

  “Yes, but it’s not your suitcase,” she says defiantly.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Margarita,” she responds. “Margarita Belén Delgado. What’s yours?”

  “Evangelina Carmen de León. I’m fourteen, or almost fourteen.”

  “I’m fifteen, but my birthday is in July.”

  “So is mine, on the first.”

  “Mine, too!” she grins, but it fades as quickly as it came. “I know you want this suitcase, but I can’t let you have it. My brother said . . . he said . . .”

  “Your brother said what?”

  “To guard it.”

  “Did he say why you had to guard it? And, where is he anyway?”

  “He didn’t want anyone to steal it. There are thieves everywhere, you know. And, he’s walking through the other railcars looking for something. He’ll be back.”

  “Did he have the suitcase before you got to the train station?”

  “Of course he did. . . . Or maybe he got the suitcase at the train station. I can’t remember.”

  “Then it’s mine, and you know it is. He stole it.”

  She stares straight ahead. Her cheek twitches.

  Minutes go by before I try again. “I’m sorry about your arm,” I say. “It looks like it hurts.”

  Her lower lip quivers and tears spill out as she slides her arm out from under her shawl to show me the purplish-red skin pitted with round ashy black spots and open sores. She wipes away her tears leaving smudges of dirt across her face.

  “I don’t have a brother,” she confesses. “My parents and sister are dead. Please don’t tell! I’m so hungry. I ate a corn cob from the garbage behind the train station,” she says weakly. “I’ve been finding things . . . things to sell, like your suitcase. I’m sorry. I know it’s sinful. It’s not how my parents raised me.”

  I put my arm around her shoulder. “I’m very sorry,” I offer. “We have food. I’m sure my mother won’t mind sharing some.”

  My stomach flip-flops. It’s been a while since we ate, and I’m hungry again.

  “Would you?” she asks.

  “Of course, but I can’t let you have the suitcase. It has everything in it, at least everything I could take from our house. We had to leave our ranch because of the war. We’re going to Texas to live with my aunt. I don’t know if we’ll ever go back home. But I hope we do.”

  “You lived on a ranch? Are you rich or did you work there?”

  “We’re not rich. At least I don’t think of us as rich. We live right outside Mariposa at Rancho Encantado. It’s been in my father’s family for generations. Where did you live?”

  “Hacienda Estrella near Rendón. But, not anymore.”

  Enrique comes back with an orange in each hand.

  Margarita attempts a smile. “Thank you,” she says, reaching out with her burned arm to grab the fruit, but instantly pulls it back under her shawl.

  Enrique leans over. “Here, I’ll give it to my sister, and she can give it to you when you’re ready. I’m sorry it’s not very much.”

  Surprise, surprise. My brother has a tender side.

  “Thank you,” she says with downcast eyes. “I feel bad taking your food.”

  “I’ll set the food in my lap, and you can have some whenever you like,” I say.

  When is she going to give me my suitcase back? I wonder. Dear God, did she open the suitcase already and find the box? A sudden throbbing pounds my temples.

  “Margarita, did you open the suitcase?” I hold my breath.

  “No, I only took the suitcase fifteen minutes before we boarded the train.”

  “I was just wondering.” The pressure in my head rushes downward. “Please excuse me,” I say to Margarita as I stand up and move toward Mamá. “Do you have your Bible with you?” I ask.

  “Of course, m’ija,” she answers. “It’s right here” she says, reaching into an outside pocket of the woven bag with the food and other small items for the trip. She unwraps a thin cloth from around the brown leather Bible and hands it to me.

  I sit back down next to Margarita and open it.

  “Do you know how to read?” she asks innocently.

  “Of course,” I reply. “Do you want to read it?”

  “Oh, no, I don’t know how to read.”

  My heart sinks. “Would you like me to read to you? We’ll be here for a while.”

  Margarita nods.

  “Genesis One. In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth,” I start.

  She’s asleep by page twenty.

  Most of the travelers have settled in, and aside from the a few conversations here and there and one fussy baby, the only sound is the train barreling down the railway.

  My resolve to stay awake fades, and I let myself float into blackness.

  “Buenas noches, m’ijita. Come outside. It’s a beautiful evening, not too hot tonight. Do you see the colors swirled together on the horizon over there? The sun was on its way to bed and left those reds, pinks and purples just for you, but they’ll be gone soon. Why don’t you sit here so we can watch them together?” Abuelito pats the space next to him on the top step of the front porch.

  I stand on the other side of the screen door with my nose pressing against the metal mesh. I smile, push the door open, skip twice and flop down next to him. I wear a blue and gray striped apron and a loose-fitting white cotton dress. White knee socks gather in wrinkles around the tops of my brown lace-up boots, worn at the toes and dusty from playing outside. Abuelito’s hands rest, one hand on each bent knee. I reach over and place my left hand on top of his wrinkly right one. “Abuelito, what story will you tell me tonight?” I ask.

  “Well, I don’t know about any stories. I haven’t gotten a hug from you all day,” he teases. “I know you just turned six and that makes you a big girl. I know you helped your Mamá in the house and picked vegetables with your brothers, but that doesn’t excuse you from giving an old man his daily hug.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I pop up, wrap my arms around his neck and take in the sweet smell of pipe tobacco on his shirt collar and in his thick hair, black and silver like the charred wood and ashes in the kitchen stove.

  “Now will you tell me a story?” I ask as I twirl backwards a half circle and sit back down.

  “How can I ever say no to such a smart and kind granddaughter? Not to mention one that has my good looks.”

  “Okay . . . but what about the story?” I tap his back gently to hurry him up.

  “Have I ever told you the story about Gorgonio and the falling star?”

  “Uh-huh. Gorgonio caught a star and took it home to his Mamá so she’d always have light in the kitchen to do her sewing.”

  “I guess I did tell you that one. Well then . . . have I ever told you how our little town Mariposa got its name?”

  I tilt my head, close my eyes and sift through pictures in my mind of Abuelito’s stories. “No, I’ve never heard that
one.”

  “Well, it’s an old story. I can’t say if it’s all true, but I like to believe it really happened.”

  “What happened?” I bounce up and down.

  I scoot closer to him so our legs touch. A warm wind blows in and rustles the leaves on the trees. The crickets begin their nightly chorus of chirps, clicks and tweets. Mamá’s pan de dulce bakes in the oven for the next day’s breakfast. I close my eyes and try to taste it with my mind.

  “Long, long ago,” Abuelito starts, “a band of Spanish explorers journeyed from halfway across the world on a big ship in search of gold and precious stones. When they arrived in the New World, there were less than half of them left. Many died from starvation and scurvy during the voyage. The surviving men arrived in a pitiful state, pale as that cloud over there, and wasted away to nothing but skin and bones. The men were weak, but they found strength and hope in their dreams of wealth and glory. They labored from sunup to sundown to uncover the riches they’d risked life and limb for, but found nothing of the sort, only natives who offered food, water and gifts. They decided to settle on the banks of the great river rather than go back to their king empty-handed. It didn’t take long for them to marry the local women and build a small village they named Agua Fuerte.

  “It was there the people witnessed a magical event in the spring when God bestowed upon them earth’s greatest bounties—splashes of color across the grasses, plentiful wild fruits, berries and abundant game. It was a time of beauty, a celebration of new life.

  “One clear morning, thousands of butterflies appeared from the north. We see butterflies ourselves each spring, don’t we? But this time, there were so many, they filled the sky in every direction.”

  I look up in wonder, hoping to see the butterflies myself.

  “The outsides of their wings were lined in thick black stripes with white spots” he continues. “The insides were filled with orange, red and gold shapes that fit together perfectly like pieces of stained glass that reminded the explorers of the grand cathedral windows in the crowded city they used to call home. They fluttered in, out and around the great river. The people took it as a sign from God that, through the arrival of the butterflies, He was gracing them with His goodness and blessing all who lived there.