“I can still take care of myself,” Leonora protested. “But if I had my own place, you could arrange for Rosario to come stay with me.”
Silvia thought about her mother’s idea for a long time. Although she had never visited Rosario at the children’s home, there had always been a gnawing guilt in the back of her mind. She knew that she had done wrong by her first-born and she that owed a chance to grow up around family, even if her second husband did not want to have her around. Convinced, she helped to find her mother a cheap bungalow to rent back in Pacoima and contacted the school to arrange for her daughter’s departure.
Rosario emerged from the school a different person. Tougher, resistant to bullying and threats, she had been in several scraps that had taught her how to use her fists to remain unscathed in an environment where everyone was angry for being abandoned or locked up by the state. It took a long period of adjustment and Leonora's affection to make her drop her guard. Eventually she came to have a relationship with her mother and younger half-siblings, but that reconciliation had come slowly and at a price. She didn’t say it out loud but I could tell that she kept a part of herself hidden from the world – a little room inside which she kept her loves, hopes and dreams. Nobody could access that room without her permission, and she granted entry to very few people.
‘You don’t have anything if you don’t have your family,” Rosario said. “That’s what my mother said to me over and over after I came back.”
“What made you finally forgive her?” I asked.
“I’m not sure that I ever did. But I felt sorry for her. And when Steve left her and the little ones, a part of me stepped in – I became the rescuer, the one who takes care of everybody. I took up different jobs to help her stay afloat and care for Mami and me as well.”
“Is it possible to feel sorry for someone but not forgive them?”
“Sure it is. There’s a great difference between forgiving and forgetting. When you forgive, you choose to let go of all the anger you hold deep down inside. But when you forget, you put aside all memories of bad things.”
She paused. “Some things cannot be forgotten. Some scars you can’t wipe clean. You can do your best to forgive those who cut them into your heart, but even then, some people don’t deserve that forgiveness. By forcing yourself to forgive, you do more harm than good. You betray yourself. Does that make sense?”
I nodded. Rosario looked at me with sympathy. “I’m stronger because of everything I’ve gone through. I left my anger behind a long time ago, but I will never forget.”
I sat back in thought. I never quite thought of it this way – that I could move beyond the pain inflicted by my mother and Albert, that someday I may even be able to communicate with her, but that I could do it on my own terms. Without having to forgive or forget. Just simply accepting things as they were and not having to create a different version of events.
Growing up, I’d always heard people say that ‘time heals all wounds.’ Somehow this expression seemed terribly wrong to me, as though people said it to diminish others’ experiences. As if you would only be allowed an acceptable period in which to feel pain, and after that the expectation was that the pain will have lessened just because the memory had receded. But what if you simply let go of the pain – by committing to yourself that you would not forget?
“It’s a lot to think about,” Rosario said, watching my expression.
“I guess I don’t always have to make an instant opinion on everything,” I admitted and saw her laugh.
“No, you don’t. You have your whole life ahead of you, don’t get too opinionated this early.”
“I can’t help myself,” I snickered.
She looked at the wall clock and shook her head. “God, it’s after two.”
I yawned. “But I don’t want to go to bed. Can’t we stay up and talk all night?”
“We’ll talk more on the drive to Hollister. Now scoot. Sweet dreams.”
I stood and stretched, bid Rosario a good night and went into the bedroom. If anyone were to have asked me beforehand how I’d imagine my first night as a runaway to be, I would have pictured me staying up for a while to reflect on the oddity of finding myself in Rosario’s bed. Things do not always work out the way you think, however; before my head hit the pillow, I was fast asleep.
CHAPTER NINE
Did you know that in Latin, apricot means ‘precious’? That nearly all apricots distributed in the United States come from California? Before my trip to Hollister I never knew how fragile and delicate this fruit we all take for granted at the grocery store really was. But on the three-hundred mile drive to San Benito county I learned the story of the apricot.
Somewhere in China, four thousand years ago, a pair of hands took up a sprig of wiry roots and wrapped them tightly in silk sacks to prevent frosting. Packed high on the humps of tan camels, these roots loomed forward along the treacherous trade routes of the high Mongolian steppes by way of Samarkand. Perhaps they stopped there briefly and waited for a merchant to quench his thirst in a tavern along the Silk Route; then, transferred to the back of a donkey, they would push through snowy Siberia and down into the south-eastern slopes of the Mediterranean. Little seeds dropped along the way would lead to flowering white blossoms in the springtime sprouting in exotic countries with names like Italy or Egypt.
Eventually a Spaniard from Andalucia would bring a sapling onto his boat and sail off with the blessing of queen Isabella for the new world. The children of that Spaniard would dig a hole in the valley that what would become California and deposit a golden branch that will come to shoot out of a black earth moistened with indigenous blood. That sapling would blossom flowers white like angel wings, and golden eggs that dangled heavily and tasted as sweet as nectar from the Gods.
Back in Boston I’d never given a second thought, when sinking my teeth into the juicy ripeness of a California apricot, to the journey taken by this little blob of fluid. I never thought of the roughened hands of the workers who braved scorching heat and dangerous pesticides to pick it down from its nest of green leaves and branches and deposit it with the outmost care inside its own collection basket, where it would then be wrapped in translucent wax paper and packed gently in crates by women who also minded children, nursed babies and prepared meals, living their lives in seasoned, fractured intervals between the slivers of the harvest just to ensure that this glorious fruit would arrive unbruised and perfect to the isles of my local supermarket and find its way to my mouth.
Rosario’s hair blew back in the wind. I loved watching her as she drove – hands on the wheel, callused and strong, long fingers which invariably tapped out a tune. The line of her neck, melodic as a song. Black eyes that smiled on contact with my face, a long and narrow nose, full curving lips I longed to touch. Being in Rosario’s presence made my heart flutter like a bird beating against the bars of a cage. At times I thought it would explode and fly out right into the sun.
I didn’t know what to make of my feelings, how to describe them, or even if I shouldn’t just push them out of my head before the sensation turned to fantasy and even craving. I didn’t want to linger on such thoughts; instinctively, I knew them to be dangerous, dirty. To confront what this feeling was would force me to look my fear in the eye. And my greatest fear of all was to ask myself what it was that I wanted from Rosario.
Simply being in her company left me wanting more, but what “more” meant was still obscure, as ambiguous as my face behind a foggy mirror. I didn’t want to wipe away the steam and see what stared back at me. And so I laughed and sang along with her and the blaring radio, and fought against the impulse to reach over and take a hold of her hand. If she’d ever had a clue of the war raging inside me, she didn’t show it.
Cienega Road struck west from Hollister into the hills toward Bird Creek. At that bend, just where Cienega Road turned south, was the entrance to the Hollister Hills. The San Andreas fault ran along the left side of the valley behind it, off of Route
25. Bird Creek crossed this valley to the east, bending rightward where it entered, then leftward where it left the fault zone. On the left was the Pacific plate, and on the right the North American one. This was the birthplace of earthquakes – making Hollister the most dangerous town in California. Landslide scars were visible through the lumpy terrain as heavy boulders cropped a hillside bushy with weeds.
In fact, Cienega Road actually ran the length of this valley and turned east toward the San Benito River. We took Peach Tree Road to the end, turning sharply to the west away from the fault trace, where it became Indian Canyon Road. According to Rosario, the trail climbed a low ridge and ran all the way to Vineyard Canyon Road and San Miguel, north of Paso Robles, down the lovely flat canyon.
The land was covered with plush orange vegetation made up mostly of parched straw and spurts of green bush. From the height of the canyon, the landscape looked the same color as Egyptian sand dunes: a dense, orange coat covered the valleys like a lion’s mane. But this sand dune actually produced leafy wide trees that littered the countryside like a staccato punctuation of green.
“This is apricot country,” Rosario said, inhaling the scent of the air as though she was savoring a memory. “Ever hear of Blenheim apricots? The best in the world. This is one of the only places they can grow ‘em,” she said proudly. “Peaches and plums too. There are orchards all over the place.”
“It’s so beautiful here,” I said, sucking the air deep in my lungs.
“The soil is rich in these parts. So fertile it’s gold.”
“You grew up around here, didn’t you?”
She shrugged. “Off and on. I’d like to think I grew up all over California – Modesto, Fresno, San Diego, you name it – but this is one of the places that’s closest to my heart.”
“You know, the funny thing is that the landscape here – earth, grass, everything – is the same color as apricot skin.”
“Ah, you noticed?”
I felt like one of those bug-eyed fossils trapped inside a shelter of amber: everything was ocher, burnt like crème caramel. “I guess you’ll have to drop me off in Hollister,” I said. “Before you go to that wedding.”
“Nope,” she said breezily. “You’re coming along with me.”
”Are you sure?” I asked doubtfully.
“Of course. You’re my guest. You’ll fit right in,” she said, and I couldn’t figure out if she was being sarcastic. “Don’t worry,” she repeated, catching my eyes this time. “Now, why would I lie to you?”
The unpaved road was full of dust as we pulled into the migrant camp in late afternoon. Children ran alongside the truck trying to peek at us. Rosario waved to them and they cheered. Several curious faces poked out of tents. We left the truck by the side of the road next to several beat-up old cars missing their windows and a couple of black motorcycles.
A small, wiry woman in her thirties came running toward us. “Oh my God, Ro! Long time no see!” she squealed as she looped her arms over Rosario’s neck and kissed her on both cheeks. “Up to no good, as always?”
“You know it. What else would I be doing?” Rosario replied, winking. When they stood apart again, she pointed to me, “This is my friend Diana. She came along for the ride.”
“Well, nice to meet you Diana,” the woman reached to shake my hand. “How do you do and all that jazz. I’m Juanita. You could say I’m this one’s older sister.” She laughed again, imbued with excitement. “Come along now, let me take you to where you’ll sleep.” Then she lowered her voice and added under her breath, “They’ve been cooking for three days now. Good God, I am exhausted.”
She threw her arm around Rosario’s waist and pulled her along, switching over to speaking in Spanish. I followed behind them, two little girls coming up to me and slipping their small hands into each of mine.
“Hola, seniorita,” one of them lisped through a missing tooth. “Llegas de fiesta?”
“Uh, sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,” I smiled, desperately wishing that I did.
As we walked into the camp, I tried to listen to what Juanita was saying. “Did you know Carmen is still here?” I caught her asking Rosario.
“Is she? I thought she’d have gone to Sacramento by now.”
Juanita shook her head, her eyebrows furrowing. “Nope, she’s still here.”
“Hmm.”
That was the only thing Rosario said, but something in her inflection made me look at her sharply. Try as I might to scrutinize her thoughts, her stony expression showed no signs of betraying what was on her mind.
Entering the encampment, I could not believe the sheer number of people who were strewn about: old men with stubble on their cheeks and ratty straw hats drinking bottles marked Cerveza out of thin blue bottles. Women who always seemed to be rushing from one tent or another, carrying bowls, vegetables, buckets of potatoes. Children scattered all over the place: girls played with hoops or skipped rope, boys kicked soccer balls around and scampered under people’s feet while some of the older teens huddled together, talking and smoking. Five heavy-set older women chatted and peeled potatoes under the shade of a large tree. Chickens scattered about, clucking in their feathers, pecking voraciously at the ground.
Several people waved to Rosario and shouted greetings in Spanish, most of them appearing to know her from the odd jobs she took through the year. The picking season stretched from mid-May to the last week of July, plenty of time for her to have driven down here, but for reasons she had not shared with me, Rosario hadn’t come to Hollister this year.
Though the wedding was another day away, the party had started already. “Crazy, ain’t it?” Rosario said to me when we came to a stop next to several makeshift tents. “This place is a village into itself. Everybody’s ready to party, they’ve earned it. Wait till tonight, they’ll really let loose.”
A short young man sporting several tattoos along his arms emerged from out of nowhere, beer bottle in hand. He wore a tight white undershirt and a red bandana that dangled out of the back pocket of his grimy jeans. Several earrings dotted his left ear and he sported a small, neatly-trimmed goatee. When he laid eyes on us he let out a howl of excitement.
“Yo ese, didn’t think I’d see your ugly face round here this weekend,” he hollered as he ran over and gave Rosario a fierce hug, practically lifting her off her feet. “Man, am I glad to see you. Wasn’t sure if you were gonna come at all.”
Rosario grinned, throwing her arm around his neck. She turned to me. “This is my vato Luis, he’s like a big brother to me. We go back a long way, don’t we, Luis?”
Luis nodded hello, a grin playing on his face. “So you got yourself a gringa, you sneaky bugger?,” he asked Rosario.
She smacked his back, laughing. “Not even close. She’s just a friend, stop kidding around..”
“Ya, ya, sure…”
“Come now, leave the girls alone,” Juanita jostled us away from Luis and showed us inside her tent. “Like old times,” she said to Rosario, then threw a glance at me. “You think she’ll be comfortable?”
“I’ll be just fine,” I said. “Really.”
Not entirely convinced, Juanita excused herself and left the tent, leaving Rosario and I alone. I sat down on a makeshift bed. “You don’t have to speak English on my behalf, you know,” I said.
Rosario shook her head. “I don’t speak it that much outside the campos. I understand it and Mami talks to me in Spanish, but I usually answer in English.”
I was surprised to hear her say that. “But you’re Mexican.”
“Well, not exactly.” She lay down on a small mattress across from mine, put her arms behind her head and looked at me. “I’m Chicano. There’s a difference. I grew up with kids at that school calling me names, saying I wasn’t really Mexican but American, a pocho. I got into a lot of fights in the barrio over that.”
“What’s that?
“When they call you pocho they mean you lost your culture, that you’re Latino in looks only but not on t
he inside. Basically a coconut – brown on the outside, white on the inside. They see you as an outsider.”
“How could they do that? You’re from the same background and all…”
She shrugged. “Whenever you have people who are discriminated against, they like to make themselves feel better by oppressing others. They want to segregate among their own. It gives them power, see – they get to feel strong, the oppressor. Even lesbians do that. The reason I like Brothers is because it’s mostly a Negro bar. I’ve been in queer nightclubs owned by whites and they always tried to keep out the Negro lesbians – they made excuses at the door about their ID cards or make it so they wouldn’t get in.”
“But why?”
“It’s obvious. Even Anglo bulldagers don’t want their women to be hit on by Negros.”
“But that’s crazy. Everybody’s an outsider, why don’t they just join together?”
“Tell me about it. Who knows, maybe they’ll settle their differences one day, have a revolution or something…”
We fell silent. A dog barked loudly outside the tent.
“Growing up, good old American people always looked at me funny, like I was going to steal something from them,” Rosario continued. “And they always called me Mexican, even though I’m as American as you are. I remember my father trying to sell the eggs our chickens hatched to the corner store – big, fresh eggs – and they didn’t want to buy from him ‘cause of his skin color. Like our chickens would be diseased or something.”
She laughed dryly. “We’re a special bunch, aren’t we? Chicanos are born right here in California but our parents are Mexican. You grow up with one foot in each country, neither here nor there, know what I mean?”
“I’ve felt that way sometimes.”
“Everybody feels like they don’t fit in somewhere. Thing is, when you look different, when your skin’s darker and there’s nothing you can do about it, you can’t go back into the closet. You can’t just pretend that you’re not; you can’t just put on a skirt and act straight if you got tired of being looked at.”
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