“Hold onto this.” He says, handing me his bag.
In an instant, the doctor mounts and clicks his heels into Tilly’s sides. “Yah!”
The horse gallops, and I point the way. Back down Culver Street, left at the tree with the white blossoms, right at the big yellow house with the fancy front porch, left again at the open field with the dilapidated barn and past the empty fruit stands alongside the road. We cross the railroad tracks into our neighborhood.
“¡Aquí!” I point at the house.
“Whoa, Tilly!” the doctor shouts.
He turns, grabs his bag from my outstretched hands, dismounts and runs up the porch steps. “Tie her up young lady, I can’t have her wander off.”
He slips in the front door.
I slide off the horse’s side and tie the reins to a tree. I think that’s what he wanted me to do. Did we get here in time?
I take one stair at a time, afraid of what I’ll find inside. I tiptoe to Tía’s and Tío’s room, stand outside the bedroom and wait.
“I’m sorry, Missus …” the doctor’s voice trails off.
“Benavides,” Mamá whispers. “Herr name ees Cristina Benavides.”
He holds my aunt’s hand and sets it down by her side.
“I’m sorry, Missus Benavides. I wish I could have been here sooner.”
It’s too late. I peer into the room. Tía Cristina sits on her bed with a tiny, still baby wrapped in a white cotton shirt. My beautiful tía who sings like an angel is silent. Tío Mario holds their first baby in the crook of his left arm and stares vacantly ahead. Doctor Taylor stands at the foot of the bed, his black bag in hand, open and useless. Mamá leads me to the front room.
“M’ijita, Tía Cristina delivered a baby boy in the middle of the night, and all was well until about an hour later when the pains began again. Neither one of us knew there were two. I did my best to guide the second baby safely into this world, but it wasn’t to be. He came out backwards.”
“But why did he die?” I whisper.
“When a baby comes feet first it’s difficult to get the head out.” She pauses for a moment. “The cord was around his neck, and he couldn’t breathe. God bless his sweet soul.”
Back in the bedroom Doctor Taylor listens to Tía’s chest with his stethoscope. Doctor Gonzales had one like that, too. The first baby now lies on the bed near his mother, swaddled in the blanket Mamá knitted in anticipation of his birth. His arms come loose and move around in tiny jerks. His cry is loud and desperate. Tío Mario leans across his wife, picks up his crying son and hands him to me.
“His name is Arturo, like my father, but we’ll call him Tito. Take him so Tía and I can spend time with his brother.” He looks at the second baby next to his wife. “His name is Jesús. He deserves a name, does he not? He is gone from this world, but God will love and cherish him in the next.”
Tía’s long black hair hangs in strings over her face. She picks up the lifeless bundle, extends her arms toward Tío and hands him his dead son. The baby looks perfect in every respect—a bit of dark hair, long lashes and a sweetheart mouth.
I sit cross-legged under the twisted old oak tree. Tito sleeps in the crook of my left arm. Ten tiny fingers, round cheeks and a wispy layer of soft black hair. I watch the ants bustle to and fro and flick the climbers off my dress. The United States is not a place of opportunity for all people. For foreigners, it’s a land where people pass you by when you beg for help, hateful people close doors in your face and babies die.
I rock Tito gently back and forth in my arms, kiss his forehead and pray for a world where God’s teachings of love and acceptance triumph over hate and divisiveness.
Doctor Taylor comes over to me and kneels down. He has golden hair with gray mixed in and crinkles at the corners of his blue-green eyes.
“He is beautiful, isn’t he?” he says. “Made in God’s image. You know you were brave to run into town and find me. What is your name?”
What is he asking?
His right hand touches his chest, “My name is Russell Taylor.” Seconds pass. “I am Doctor Russell Taylor. . . . What is your name?” He points to me. “Your name, . . . is it, Dolores? Nora? Ida? Hilda?”
Oh! I understand now. “Me llamo . . . nem ees . . . Evangelina.”
“Evangelina? That’s a real pretty name. I am sorry my mother wasn’t very nice to you. A lot of your people are coming to Seneca, maybe fifty in the past six months. People around here are just scared, afraid of what they don’t know, afraid of change. My mother, she’s decided all Mexicans are bad . . . anyone with dark skin, really, or an accent. Around here, a lot of folks agree with her. I don’t agree . . . I don’t agree at all. But you’ll see, things will get better in time. You’re brave, and I bet you’re smart. I’ll come back in a few days and check on your aunt and the baby . . . maybe in the evening, after I see my regular patients. Now, get some rest. You look mighty tired.”
He stands up, strides over to Tilly, jumps on and rides off.
His words were a mystery, but his eyes were kind.
Chapter Sixteen
What You Make of It
July 3, 1911
“Evangelina, you will start school in August. You have a month to get used to the idea,” Papá tells me after breakfast. “You’ll learn math, history, literature, science . . . there’s a whole world out there you don’t know about, and this is your chance to discover it. There’s only so much your mother and I can teach you.”
I say nothing, do nothing. I mustn’t give him the impression I want this.
“Sit down,” he says, taking a seat at the end of the sofa and patting the spot next to him.
His dark, curly hair falls past his ears. It’s longer than I’ve ever seen it before. The gray hair at his temples only showed up recently.
I sit down on the sofa next to him, and he wraps his arm around my shoulder.
“I’ve made a decision.” He pulls his arm back, shifts in his seat to look at me directly, then crosses and uncrosses his arms. “And you don’t have a choice.”
“Can’t Elsa go with me?” I plead.
“No, m’ija. Elsa will look for work to support the family. I wish it weren’t true, but we need the money. Your aunt is not feeling well. You’ve seen how she is, and who can blame her? She’s been in her room day and night. That means your mother is doing everything around the house and caring for Domingo, Leticia and Tito. She needs Elsa’s help.” He pauses. “Perhaps your sister will join you at school later,” he says, but I know it’s not true.
“I’m scared! My English . . . I barely understand it, and I can’t say a full sentence, just words. How will I learn if I can’t speak the language?”
“You’ll do the best you can. What else can you do? Listen: When your mother went into town a few days ago, she spoke to Señor Martínez. He said he’d tell the teacher to expect you on the first day.”
“Señor Martínez?”
“The man you met when you first got here. He showed you the way.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
I try to remember what the school looked like when we first came to town. The courthouse and school share the same building. White, two stories, outside stairs to the second floor.
“Please, Papá. I’m not ready!” My fingers turn cold, and my stomach grumbles in protest.
“What is there to get ready? You will get dressed, your mother will fix you a lunch and you’ll walk to school. The teacher’s name is Señora Abbott. I’m sure she’ll be a fine teacher. Listen, m’ija, the experience at the school will be what you make of it. All of us have to do things we’re not comfortable with, and you are no different. Do you understand?”
He means that if it’s not a good experience, I should pretend that it is. “Yes, Papá.”
“Evangelina?” Mamá calls.
“I’m coming.” I stand up, happy to end this conversation. “Will you excuse me, Papá?”
Mamá stands at in front of a grind stone on th
e kitchen table. A bucket of lime-soaked corn kernels sits at her feet.
“M’ija, your tía and tío’s baby should have a proper burial with a wake and funeral services, but the house where they hold Mass can’t be used anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Someone left a campfire going outside. The brush near the building was dry. I’m sure it didn’t take much for the fire to spread. So I plan to pay the funeral home in town for the use of the chapel. We’ll do the wake the day after tomorrow, if the chapel is available. Mass will be the next day. I’ll go to the funeral home in the morning and make arrangements. Will you go with me?”
Chapter Seventeen
Proper Burial
July 4, 1911
The white sign by the road reads, “Silver Family Funeral Home.” Mamá and I begin our walk up the long, winding driveway. Lush green grass covers the hillside on both sides. We never had grass like this back at the ranch. It’s very pretty, but who has time to take care of it? This place must not have any farm animals or crops to look after. Señor Martínez gave Mamá the address: 206 Leander Street. It’s the only funeral home in the area. We found it with only one wrong turn. Señor Martínez’s wife has lived in Texas a long time, so her English is very good. She wrote a note for us to give to the funeral director. We couldn’t very well ask Tía Cristina to do it.
Between Mamá and me we can probably say twenty words, although we understand many more than that. We wouldn’t even try to communicate with anyone about something like this. Señor Martínez started teaching me English, but we’ve only had four lessons so far.
We near the top of the driveway. A one story brick building with a white pointed roof sits at the top of the hill. Rectangular leaded glass windows with a crisscross diamond pattern flank each side of the front doors. Some diamonds are clear and others are creamy pink like the wild roses that spring up here and there around the ranch.
A covered walkway leads to a bigger brick building with three arched stained glass windows. Jesus fills the center window in his white robe, on his knees, hands clasped in prayer as he looks serenely to the sky where golden rays shine down from the heavens. The other long narrow windows are covered with yellow and pink diamonds in rows from top to bottom.
“We should be presentable before we go in.” Mamá looks me over. “Straighten out your bonnet, and use your handkerchief to wipe the dirt off your boots. They’re old, but they shouldn’t look dirty. Now,” she turns to her left and then to her right. “How do I look?”
Mamá adjusts the black and white plaid hat she found in Tía’s closet. Three small black fabric-covered buttons stack one on top of the other to decorate the front and a lovely white bow ties around it at the bottom near the brim. Mamá’s dress is pretty: black, buttoned tight at the waist, high collar and perfectly pressed pleats in the full skirt. A thin strip of scalloped white lace decorates the edge of the skirt near the hem.
“You look nice. Now let’s go in,” I say, smiling.
She fidgets with her hat again and takes a deep breath.
“Smile, and use your best manners. I don’t know how they do things around here, so just be as polite as possible, and don’t forget to smile.”
I knock on the front door.
The front door opens. “Hello, can I help you?” asks a large, big bellied man with short, dark wiry hair and a dark suit.
I smile at him brightly to make a good first impression.
“Hola, señor . . .” Mamá says as she holds out the paper.
The man steps back. He puckers his lips and looks us up and down. He talks firmly, shakes his head and points down the hill. All I can catch is “Seneca,” “no” and “Mexicans.” He says “Mexicans” a few times.
“Por favor, señor,” Mamá pushes him the note again.
He grabs it, takes one look and thrusts it back at her.
She takes the paper and hands it to me. “Tengo dinero, señor.” She pulls her wedding ring off and displays it on her open palm. “Voy a venderlo,” she offers.
He starts to shut the door.
A young girl’s voice rings out from behind. “Daddy, see my new dress for the Independence Day parade?”
She pushes in front of the man. Her yellow hair is curled and held to one side with a satin ribbon. Her bright red dress with a blue sash and shiny white shoes look like something from a book.
She points at us. “Who are these people? What nerve! We don’t serve foreigners here!” She scowls. “Look at those ugly boots! What girl wears boots with a dress?”
The man pulls her in and shuts the door.
Mamá crosses her arms in front of her chest. “What . . . what was that? That man won’t serve us because we’re Mexicans? Is that what he said? He should show compassion. Especially in his line of work! What a monster!” An angry pink creeps up her neck and into her face.
My mind swirls. The man, the girl, no Mexicans, the dead baby named Jesús.
“The note said I would pay! I wasn’t asking for charity. I planned to sell my wedding ring. It would have more than covered the cost. . . .”
I pull her away gently. “Let’s go home. I wish we never came to this horrible place.” She probably thinks I mean the funeral home.
The door creaks open again. The girl sticks her head out and watches us until we’re out of view.
My mind skips around: school, Abuelito’s box that thankfully has gone undiscovered, the girl at the funeral home, Tomás, my life, my disaster of a life. At home, the people around us loved us, treated us like family, even people we just met. Why are we being treated like this? Why do people hate us? We love and fear God, we’re hard workers and we’re only here because it was the only place we could go.
Elsa sits on the sofa with Tito, wrapped in a light blue blanket asleep in her arms.
“How did it go?” Elsa asks.
The tip of her little finger rests upside down in Tito’s mouth for him to suck on. His long eyelashes flutter open and close again. Mamá hangs her hat on the rack by the front door. I pull my bonnet off and toss it onto a chair.
“We went to the funeral home to see about services for the baby. I offered to pay, but the man turned us down,” Mamá responds flatly.
“What do you mean ‘turned you’ . . .”
“Maríaelena?” Tía Cristina asks, coming in, pale and thin like a strip of white gauze. “What did you say about a funeral home? Mario said there would be a funeral in town. I won’t be going. You know I’m not well.”
“No, no, no . . . no funeral home,” Mamá assures her. “We will host the wake here at the house. Between outside and inside there’s enough room. Everyone will bring food, and Father Miguel will say Mass here.”
Mamá lifts Tía’s chin gently to look directly into her watery eyes. “Listen to me. I know you’re feeling very low, and no one faults you for that. You’ve suffered a terrible loss, but you have to face the truth and be a part of this . . . to honor him. You had two sons and one is gone, but one son is still here.” She looks toward the baby. “You have a beautiful son who needs you. And Leticia needs you, too. I can only keep her away from you for so long. She misses her mother. Come on. Let’s go into the bedroom. I’ll bring you some warm water for the bath and make you cinnamon tea with honey. You clean up, I’ll brush your hair, and you can spend some time with your children. I will help you, but you have to be a mother again.”
Tía looks at the baby stirring in Elsa’s arms, buries her face in her hands and sobs. Mamá hugs her and pulls her tight.
“It’s okay to cry, Cristina. . . .” Mamá whispers softly.
Tía turns and disappears into her room.
Chapter Eighteen
Doctor Taylor
July 10, 1911
It’s 10:30 in the morning. Iridescent lines float and squiggle above the puddles from last night’s rain as the heat evaporates the water. Doctor Taylor arrived twenty minutes ago to check on Tía Cristina and the baby. He emerges from the front door and tips
his hat.
“Mother and baby are doing fine,” the doctor reports.
He’s smiling so Tía must be okay. She still doesn’t talk much, but at least she made it to the service and the wake. She’s feeding Tito regularly now and letting him sleep with her. Tío Mario made himself a bed on the floor so Leticia can sleep next to her mother, too.
“Evangelina? That’s your name, right?” Doctor Taylor asks, removing his hat and holding it at his side. “I have a note for you. I had my friend in town write it in Spanish for me. Name’s Armando Hidalgo. Do you know him?” He shakes his head. “Ah! It’s no matter if you know him. He moved here twenty years ago as a young man. Started a horse-shoeing business. Sells things on the side, too . . . saddles, harnesses, whips, used wagon parts and the like. Here,” he holds out a letter.
I stand up, brush off the back of my dress and take the folded paper. It’s in Spanish!
Evangelina,
My name is Russell Taylor. I am the only doctor in Seneca. There were two of us, but Doctor Gentry passed away about 6 months ago. It was sudden. I live with my mother Matilda. You met her the other day. She’s not as friendly as she used to be, but she’s 75 and loses her patience more easily now. She’s having a lot of trouble remembering things too. I apologize for how she treated you. Even 5 years ago I don’t think she would have talked to you that way.
I am a widower. My wife Susanna died in childbirth fourteen years ago. I lost her and the baby and never remarried. Since my mother is getting on in years she can’t help me out at home like she used to. I’m busier than ever with my medical practice and could use some light house cleaning and maybe even a little help with meals. Would you be willing to work for me? I understand if you’re in school and too busy for it. But, if you can come for just a few days a week, a few hours at a time I would be very grateful. I’ll pay 20 cents each time you come. If you do a good job, I will make it 30.
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