Evangelina Takes Flight

by Diana J. Noble

  “I received a letter today from your Abuelito,” he begins.

  My heart thumps, then speeds up.

  “The letter was hand-delivered by an acquaintance from Mariposa, Máximo Flores. Do you remember him?”

  “Of course, he’s Señor Flores’ son. We saw him many times at the store working with his father. He was always very nice,” I add, trying to think of a way to stall whatever it is Papá plans to tell me.

  “Abuelito heard Máximo was coming through Texas, so he asked him if he’d deliver the letter on his way up to Red Ridge, Oklahoma, to a brewery up there where his cousin can get him a job.”

  “Please don’t be angry with me, Papá!” I plead. “I didn’t know what else to do. He asked me to keep the box hidden until you asked for it. He said if I told anyone, it could bring danger to our family. I am sorry for not telling you. I hid it when we got here and haven’t looked at it, not once!” Relief and shame wash over me.

  Papá’s eyes soften. “I am proud of you, m’ijita. What you did took great courage. I am sorry you had to bear the burden so long.”

  “Why is it so dangerous, and why did Abuelito want me to bring it here?”

  The warm wind rushes through the trees and dark clouds glide in. I smell the rain that’s yet to fall.

  “He’s had that box hidden in the stable for more than fifty years, and for all that time he’s carried an enormous guilt inside him. His letter tells a story that is hard to believe, but he is an honest man and would never lie about something like this. I’m sure he feels better having told his secret.”

  “What does it say?”

  Papá reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the letter.

  July 4, 1911

  To Adán de León

  1918 Washington Street

  Seneca, Texas

  From David de León

  Rancho Encantado

  Mariposa, México

  Adán, my son,

  I got your letter and was relieved to read that you arrived safely. Francisca heard the Ramírez family was not so fortunate. You may remember Jorge. He came to Mariposa from Sandoval a few years ago and worked night and day on the Trujillo farm but could not make enough money even to feed his family. With the revolution moving north and no opportunity here, they left for Texas to join relatives a week after you. The second night they found a place to set up camp and rest, but before they even finished unloading, a pack of wolves came at them lunging at the horses. The horse carrying Señora Ramírez and little Olivia reared up. The poor child was thrown from the horse and trampled when it came down on her. She was only five years old, God rest her soul. Jorge shot and killed two of the wolves and the rest ran off, but it was too late for the child. She died the next day. They brought her back to Mariposa and buried her here. Señora Ramírez speaks to no one but God through prayer. Olivia was their only child to live past the age of three. The other two died from the fever within a few weeks of each other some years back. I know you will pray for the family.

  Adán, the real reason I am writing is to tell you about another serious matter. It’s been a month since you left Mariposa and there has been no sign of Pancho Villa or his men. The town is quiet. Perhaps they will never come, and it’ll turn out it was nothing but a rumor. That is everyone’s hope. But if I am being truthful, I believe they will come. The night before you left, I gave a box to Evangelina and made her promise to keep it secret until you received this letter. She does not know its contents. I put her in a difficult position and for that I am sorry. I knew I could trust her to do this important thing for me. If I gave it to you or Maríaelena, you never would have taken it.

  Before I tell you about the contents of the box, I must give you the story behind it so you understand how it came to be in my possession.

  In the winter of ’47 I was nine years old. Comanches raided our town and kidnapped my friend Ernesto Rodríguez as he was tending his herd of sheep and goats. His family and friends searched for months, but he could not be found, and everyone feared he was dead. After a year there were no more searches.

  Nine years later a small band of Comanches was seen far outside their own settlement on the outskirts of Correo. We sent scouts to monitor their movement. They came back convinced the Indians were planning an attack. So some of us joined with the citizens of Correo and found the Comanches’ camp. We took them by surprise late at night and all but a few were killed.

  During the chaos, one of their men caught my eye. His hair was curly, not straight like all the others. He along with a few others escaped into the night.

  My memory of this man would not leave me alone after the raid, and a few nights later it came to me in a dream. The curly haired man was Ernesto!

  I convinced Ernesto’s brother Esteban that Ernesto was alive. We agreed, the two of us would rescue him. We left the next morning and tracked them down. We found their settlement and hid on the outskirts as we watched the day’s activity. It didn’t take long before we saw him. Ernesto wore buckskin clothes and moccasins and he spoke their language! He wasn’t their prisoner. He had become one of them! Still we were determined to get him back.

  Ernesto was the first to emerge from his tipi the next morning. What luck! We ambushed him from behind and forcibly took him back to Mariposa with a gun at his back to keep him quiet. He did not want to go!

  For a few weeks he hardly spoke. He only spoke Spanish with difficulty. He was distant, not like the boy we all remembered. I stayed with his family the whole time in hopes Ernesto would rediscover his origins, his family and friends.

  One night to my surprise he sat at a campfire with me and described how he was abducted and how cruel the Comanches were to him, although his Spanish was broken and heavily accented.

  He did women’s work for months, had barely anything to eat and was beaten savagely when he cried for his family. Months later he was adopted by an old woman and allowed to learn the language and skills of a Comanche brave—horseback riding, hunting with a bow and arrow and participating in raids on Mexican and American settlers to steal horses and cattle and even kill those who fought back. He learned to love his life as a Comanche and married a Comanche girl.

  Ernesto stayed in Mariposa with us for three months but he was unhappy. He seemed ill at ease in his own childhood home. To his family’s disappointment, he left to rejoin the tribe.

  Weeks before, he had told me a secret that changed my life. If Ernesto knew then what I would do with the information, he never would have told me. The Comanche Chief possessed something of great value, something his people stole from a rich Spanish settler during a raid of his hacienda 100 years earlier.

  Ernesto saw it for the first time when he delivered firewood to the chief’s tipi the day of the chief’s eldest daughter’s wedding. He kept his eyes down as he tended the fire but still saw the chief pull out a golden cross covered with jewels from under a buffalo hide. The Comanches believed the cross had powers that could sway the gods in their favor. Ernesto knew the cross would make any man rich. He saw it many more times at ceremonies over the years.

  The story of the cross compelled me to do what I have since regretted for many years.

  Papá pauses to search my face for a reaction.

  “What happened after that?” I probe.

  “Abuelito stole the cross.”

  “I don’t believe you . . . not Abuelito. He would never do that,” I gasp.

  “I am sorry, Evangelina, I wish it weren’t true, but it is. The cross would bring enough money for his family to buy more land, lots of land and become part of the wealthy elite in any part of Mexico they chose. It’s hard for me to believe it, too, because he is a principled, God-fearing man. But he was young and made a terrible mistake.”

  “Is there more in the letter?”

  “Yes, I’ll read you the rest.”

  I chose my timing carefully. Ernesto said the buffalo migrated across the area every summer. At the first full summer moon the Comanche warriors woul
d hunt for two to three weeks to bring back a whole year’s worth of meat, hides, bones, horns and furs. I traveled to the outskirts of the Indian camp on that day and hid while I watched and waited for the men to assemble their hunting party and leave.

  Ernesto said the women and children went to the banks of the nearby Río Bravo every morning to get drinking water, bathe and wash clothes. Early the next day I watched them leave camp just as Ernesto said they would. Only a few old men remained. I easily spotted the chief’s tipi. Every tipi was plain but this one had hunting scenes painted on all sides—men on horseback with spears, leaping antelope and running buffalo. When the old men and children wandered off, I sneaked to the back of the chief’s tipi, slit an opening with my knife and crawled in. I found the cross hidden inside the chief’s ceremonial robe, concealed by a stack of animal hides. I dropped it in my boot, mounted my horse and rode away.

  I felt exhilarated on the way back home. I imagined all the things I would buy with the money. A farm of my own, a thousand head of cattle and enough supplies to last a lifetime. With that kind of wealth I could have the pick of the most beautiful women in town. Maybe even Adelfa, the most beautiful girl within a hundred miles. But when I got back and had time to think about what I’d done, I grew uneasy. What respectable woman would want to be with me if she knew I’d committed a sin against God? And not just any sin but thievery out of greed and selfishness? Adelfa, the woman I intended to marry was not only beautiful but honorable and kind. She would not have me if she knew what I’d done. I’d been stupid and greedy and wished I could undo it all.

  I put my hand on Papá’s knee. “So that’s what’s in the box?”

  He nods. “Abuelito went to church every day for weeks, confessed his sins only to God, begged for forgiveness and asked Him what to do, but God was silent— perhaps a punishment for his sin. So he did the only thing he could think of. He put the cross in a box and buried it in the stable where no one would find it. He might have been killed had he tried to return it to the Comanches.”

  “Why did he make me bring it here, and why was it such a secret? Because he committed a sin?”

  “I am afraid not. Rumors swirled for weeks before we left that Pancho Villa was coming to Mariposa to plunder the townspeople for all the riches he could find in order to fund his army and its diminishing supplies. If he wanted something, he’d kill to get it. Of course, no one knew what riches he could possibly want. Even the church had very little that anyone would want to steal. Most people thought it was a hoax and tried to put it out of their minds. But Abuelito thought differently. He wondered if Villa knew about the cross.”

  “Pancho Villa wants the cross? How could he possibly know Abuelito had it?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing more than a rumor. We don’t even know if Villa’s headed to Mariposa. But your Abuelito didn’t want to take any chances. He saw an opportunity to use the cross for a worthy cause. In the letter he instructed me to sell the cross and use the money to improve our lives in Texas, to reclaim the life we lived in Mariposa with land and a home of our own.”

  “Will you sell it?”

  “No.” Papá grabs my cold hand in his warm one. “I don’t know yet what I’ll do. But most Mexicans are far worse off than we are. Many are starving, cannot read or write and have little hope the revolution will give them back even their most basic rights. Maybe that was God’s plan for your Abuelito and that cross all along: to help those who cannot help themselves.”

  “Why did Abuelito give it to me? Why didn’t he just give it to you and tell you to sell it in Texas?”

  “He knew I would not take it. The cross was stolen, and using it for our own personal gain would be a sin. Greed is an ugly thing, and I am not motivated by money but by what is right. Abuelito figured once we were here, I would bend and use the cross to start again.”

  “But why me, though? Why not give it to one of the boys?”

  “Because he trusted you. You remind him of Abuelita. You two have a special bond.”

  I sit quiet for a minute and think about everything I’ve heard.

  “What if it’s not a rumor? Will Pancho Villa go to Mariposa looking for the cross?”.

  “I’ve thought of that, too, m’ija, but your Abuelito is safe at René’s family’s house way up on the hillside. No one could find him there. As soon as we hear from Francisca that Tomás is well enough to travel, I will go back. If René hasn’t sold the herd by then, I’ll sell it, even if I have to take a loss on it. When I get back, we’ll move into a place of our own. I suspect we’ll be here for a while.”

  My eyes start to sting, and my insides flutter like the leaves of our orchard trees when the wind picks up. “It will be dangerous, Papá!”

  “Not any more dangerous than it was coming here. The job at the brick factory doesn’t pay much. I could go farther out and take a job working for the railroad, like your uncle, or in the mines like your brother, but I would be away most of the time. We have the financial means in Mexico . . . I just need to go back and get it. And God willing, bring your brother back here with me.”

  “Can I go with you?” I plead. “I want to be the first one to see Abuelito safe and Tomás smile again.”

  “You’re talking like I’m leaving in the morning. Let’s just hope we hear from Francisca soon.”

  “Should I bring you the box with the cross in it?” I ask. The secret box is a secret no more.

  “You must be anxious to see it after all this time.”

  My beautiful doll Belinda is lying face down, the hiding space inside her back open and exposed. The cross lies in the box on a stale-smelling cloth, with paper and hay packed around it. Intricate gold etching peeks through the diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds on all four crossbars. Tiny white pearls form a circle in the middle. Inside the circle, a beautifully painted, haloed Madonna and child look out into the light for the first time in over fifty years.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Selim

  August 28, 1911

  It’s my fourth week at this school, and I feel so alone. I understand some of what Mrs. Abbott says in class, but I’ve said less than ten sentences since I got here, embarrassed by my fumbling and heavily accented English. To make things worse, it’s against the rules to speak Spanish. Last week, a boy named Joaquín got caught speaking Spanish to his sister in the schoolyard. His punishment was one stroke of the cane across his backside with a warning that if he got caught again it would be much worse. Some kids laughed about it this morning as they retold the story.

  Still, I sit at this desk every day and try to learn.

  It’s time for lunch. Only three more hours until I can go home. I reach under my desk and grab the bag Mamá made to hold my lunches. She stitched the edges with red yarn and used it to make a happy looking flower on one side. A few weeks ago it was a burlap sack with twenty pounds of rice brought with us across the border. The thought of rice makes the dull pain in my stomach demand, “Pay attention to me!” There’s nothing wrong with rice, but it used to be a side dish, not the main dish. I’m used to fresh eggs, bean and cheese tamales topped with tomatoes and peppers from our garden, bread pudding with apples and even barbecue on special occasions.

  In Seneca, we have rice and beans most of the time, or potatoes. Sometimes I bring home sweet, chewy figs picked from a tree in an empty field near Tía Cristina’s house. Is that stealing? I tell Mamá a girl named Dolores gives them to me because her family has more than they need.

  “What do you have in there today, Evangelina?” Rosemary bends at the waist and pinches the tip of her nose. “Beans again?”

  The other kids crane their necks to look and laugh at my lunch. “What kind of disgusting brown garbage is that? How many days in a row have you brought beans? It looks like dog poop! What’s the matter, can’t you Mexicans afford real food? Isn’t that what they feed hogs?”

  I can’t understand everything she says, but I understand enough to know she’s making fun of me
. Heat rushes up my neck. I keep my head down and say nothing. If I try to defend myself, it’ll only get worse. I can’t string enough English words together to make a whole sentence.

  Rosemary picks up my bag with the tips of her thumb and forefinger. “What is this made out of, anyway? It looks like a potato sack. It is! It’s a potato sack! Who brings a potato sack to school? Probably has bugs crawling in it.” She drops it on my desk.

  The laughing thunders in my ears. I watch the door, praying for Missus Abbott to come back. Someone, please rescue me.

  The door opens. Hallelujah! Missus Abbott must have read my thoughts. Only, it’s not Missus Abbott. It’s Selim, the very nice-looking older boy who loaned me his chalkboard on the first day of school. I’m thankful for the distraction, until I hear Victor throw out insults of his own.

  “Hey, camel boy, you know what this is?” He points at my lunch bag with the pretty red flower. “Looks like one of your momma’s dresses! Yeah! One of her dresses!”

  Victor grabs my bag and throws it at Selim, who catches it, glares at Victor and then walks calmly over to my desk. The world goes into slow motion. Dark eyes with long lashes hold mine for what seems like minutes. Where did all the noise go? He crouches down so our faces are level and sets the bag on the desk. I feel his warm breath on me.

  “Evangelina, do you want to go outside for a while? I don’t think Mrs. Abbott will mind.”

  I nod my head silently, completely unable to form words—English or Spanish.

  Victor is not done with us yet. “Where are you going, camel boy? Back to your own country, I hope! You two deserve each other. This is America! Nobody wants you here, and one of you only talks Mexican. Don’t come back here ’til you can talk God’s English, you hear me?”

  Selim holds out his hand to help me out of my desk. I’m too embarrassed to take it, so I stand up by myself. He’s older than me and much taller than I expected. He must be a whole head taller than Papá. I’ve never been this close to him before, although I do admit I’ve looked at him many times. Many, many times. He sits on the opposite side of the classroom near the front. I sit in the back and hope Mrs. Abbott forgets I’m there. I bet every girl looks at Selim when they think he’s not paying attention. Rosemary stares at him more than all the other girls combined, even though he’s a foreigner and she says she hates foreigners. I try not to stare, because it isn’t proper, but he’s the most wonderful boy I’ve ever seen. His loopy black curls fall just below his ears and swoop across his forehead. He’s got a shadow of a mustache and full lips. I’m looking at a boy’s lips!