by Loriel Ryon
“Rosalind Franklin!” Yolanda yelled.
She barked again.
And again.
Yolanda jumped up and ran to the grass edge. The barking grew incessant and more urgent.
“Rosalind Franklin!”
Then Rosalind Franklin yelped.
“Come on, girl!” Yolanda frantically searched the grass for signs of movement, her heart pounding in her chest. There were none. “Rosalind Franklin!”
Silence.
There was a rustle in the grass, and Rosalind Franklin popped out and bolted for the back door.
A wave of relief washed over Yolanda. Thank goodness her dog was all right. She picked her up and let Rosalind Franklin lick her face, the dog’s hot breath sticky and sweet from the grass. “You scared me, girl. I can’t let anything happen to you.”
She took Rosalind Franklin back inside and shut the door. The blue star flag hanging in the window was tangled up on itself from the wind. She fixed it, laying it flat against the glass, and checked the answering machine and her voice mail for any missed calls.
Nothing.
She padded into Wela’s room and opened the windows to let the cool desert air in, the same way she would when Welo was sick. The popping grass echoed in the breeze.
Wela’s breathing was quiet and restful. Yolanda tugged the yellow serape up under Wela’s chin and bent down to kiss her cheek.
“Do you hear it, Wela? It’s growing.”
Nine
LATER that night, Yolanda woke drenched in sweat. The bedroom was hot and stuffy, but there was no way she could open the window. Hanging just outside, Sonja’s bee house hummed faintly. Rosalind Franklin’s black fur shone in the moonlight as she kneaded her paws against Yosemite. Sonja snored softly.
A voice called from downstairs.
Yolanda bolted upright. Her stomach lurched as she glanced over at Sonja, who was still asleep with the dogs curled around her. Some guard dogs. And Sonja could sleep through anything.
The voice called again.
“Yo-lan-da!”
Who was that? She held her breath and waited. Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears, she wasn’t sure she could hear anything at all.
Then she stood, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet. She tiptoed to the bedroom door and listened.
Nothing.
She opened the door and snuck out into the dark hall, her feet tangling on the straps of one of Sonja’s hiking backpacks. She tripped and hit the ground with a thud, her knee slamming into the wood floor.
Sonja! Why did she insist on packing for a camping trip when Dad was halfway across the world?
Yolanda stood up and looked back into the bedroom. Rosalind Franklin’s head snapped up, and Yolanda pressed her fingers to her lips. Sonja grumbled and rolled over, and Yosemite snuggled deep into the covers. Sliding the backpacks across the floor to the other side of the hall, Yolanda crept to the top of the stairs and waited.
Nothing.
“Yo-lan-da!” the voice called again.
Rosalind Franklin popped off the bed and scampered over to Yolanda’s feet.
She heard the back door open and the screen slam shut. Rosalind Franklin growled, and the hackles on her back stood on end. Yolanda swallowed hard, picked up Rosalind Franklin, and crept down the stairs, each step creaking under her feet. She searched the darkened hallway, but there was no one there. She padded quietly to Wela’s bedroom and peeked through the crack in the door.
The covers were disheveled. Wela’s bed was empty.
A surge of excitement ripped through her. Where was she? Was Wela awake?
Her heart raced as she tiptoed through the kitchen and into the living room.
There was no one there.
The heavy wooden door to the back porch creaked in the hot wind. It was open.
Yolanda looked out the window, and there she was.
Wela.
Yolanda almost shouted her name in excitement, but she held it in. Was this really happening? Was this real?
Wela’s long white hair was disheveled, and the colorful embroidered nightgown pooled around her ankles. She was sitting on the steps, drinking a glass of orange juice. The yellow serape from her bed was wrapped over her shoulders while the butterflies opened and closed their wings in the white curls down her back.
It was her. It was Wela and she was awake. Yolanda’s heart pounded in her ears. “Wela?” She quietly opened the screen door.
Wela smiled, set the glass on the step, and patted the space next to her. “Siéntate, mija.”
With Wela’s voice, Yolanda’s heart leapt and Rosalind Franklin wiggled in her arms.
“You’re okay! You’re awake!” She put Rosalind Franklin down, ran to Wela, and threw her arms around her. “I’m so sorry for what I said, the argument and everything. I didn’t mean it.”
She squeezed Wela so tight, she didn’t want to ever let go. Now everything would be fine. Wela would be able to keep them all together—as a family. Everything was going to be okay.
“I have so much to tell you. They wanted to send me and Sonja to a foster home, but now that you are awake—we haven’t heard from Dad yet— Oh! And my science fair project was a complete disaster—and there’s this weird grass that started growing out there.”
She embraced Wela again, hugging her for a long time. She rubbed the embroidered flowers on Wela’s nightgown with her thumb, and Wela’s curls tickled her nose, but Yolanda wasn’t going to let go. A butterfly bounced from curl to curl in the dim light. It almost seemed as if it would fall, but it would gracefully catch itself on another curl. Something wasn’t right. Wela was quiet. Too quiet. Yolanda pulled away.
Wela was frowning. “I don’t have long, mija.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have much time.”
“Much time for what?”
“To get there,” Wela said, her breath escaping her. She paused for a moment. “I need you to take me to the pecan tree.”
“The pecan tree?” Yolanda looked into the black night. There was moonlight, but it was too dark to see all the way to the tree. “What for?”
“Oh, mija. It’s calling me.” Wela’s voice caught and her eyes glistened. “I’m dying.” Wela’s expression changed from sadness to determination. “We have to find it before it’s too late.”
The excitement from seeing Wela now dissolved into nothing, and the pit of worry invaded Yolanda’s gut again. She was dying? Something wasn’t right. What was she talking about? “Find what?”
“La caja. La caja. La caja.” Wela repeated the words over and over again and stood, running her fingers through her hair and disturbing the butterflies. “I know he put it here somewhere.”
“A box? You’re looking for a box?” Yolanda placed her hand on Wela’s shoulder to calm her, but it was no use. Wela kept pacing.
“What kind of box? How big is it?”
Wela snapped. “It’s the box! I have to find the box!” Her shoulders slumped and she hung her head. She leaned against the wall and pushed her palms against her eyes.
Yolanda hated to see Wela upset like this. What if it caused her to go back into the sleep? “I’ll help you. We’ll find it. Don’t worry.” She took Wela’s arm and guided her to the swing on the porch. Rosalind Franklin jumped up on the swing and sat between them.
Wela patted her head and raised an eyebrow. “You little maldita bonita, you’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you, eating my chanclas?” Rosalind Franklin nuzzled her head into Wela’s hand and licked it once before resting her head on Wela’s lap.
“You falling into the sleep was my fault, wasn’t it?” Yolanda tapped her toes together, searching the ground for answers.
“Oh no, no, no.” Wela wrapped an arm around her and hugged her close. “It’s not.”
“I should have never said those things. I’m really sorry.”
“I know you are,” Wela said. “But you know, as much as I don’t want to admit it, there was truth to what you said.
”
Yolanda glanced up, surprised to hear Wela say that. “Really?”
“We all have our reasons for doing the things we do. I hope one day, even if you don’t agree with me, you will understand why I did it.”
She would never understand why Wela would burn all of Welo’s notes. It was cruel to throw away his life’s work like that. How could she? “I just don’t understand why you would destr—” She stopped herself. Not now. She gripped Wela’s hand.
“Promise you will take me. Mañana. Tomorrow.”
“I will. Of course I will.” Yolanda gripped Wela’s hands in hers. “It will make you better, won’t it? That’s what you always say—it’s a strange land.”
Wela didn’t say anything for a moment, as though she was considering her answer. “Something like that.” She patted the tops of Yolanda’s hands. “What I know for certain is everything will be set right when we get there.” Wela pressed her lips together. “I hope.”
That was good enough for her. If Wela said everything was going to be all right, then it was. Yolanda rested her head on Wela’s shoulder. “If it will make you better, I’ll take you anywhere. We’ll look for the box first thing in the morning.”
It was nice to have this time alone with Wela. Without Sonja needing something. Wela brushed a curl from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “You remind me so much of your mamá. You have so much of her in you.”
She melted into Wela’s arms. Wela didn’t talk about Mamá often. Once Welo told her it was too painful. It was too painful for both of them.
Wela pulled her in close, so warm and secure. The swing creaked back and forth.
Pop. Click. Pop.
“Do you hear that?” Yolanda whispered, looking up at Wela’s wrinkled face.
Wela nodded. “Está creciendo.”
Yolanda didn’t know what that meant.
“ ‘Crecer’ means ‘to grow’—it’s growing.”
“But why?”
“It’s a strange land, mija. For generations, our family has lived here on this land. When I was a little girl, it was a pecan orchard, and me and my family used to sell pecans to the townsfolk here. They were the sweetest, most delicious pecans anyone had ever tasted.”
Yolanda laid her head in Wela’s lap and Wela began her story.
Ten
“STAND UP straight, Jo,” Mami said, pouring the hard round nuts into canvas sacks. Violeta scooped large handfuls of nuts into crates while Raúl unloaded more empty crates from the trailer. “You need to look approachable or no one will buy from us.”
This was before I knew about my gift with the butterflies, and I was being my usual stubborn self. It was a beautiful clear Sunday in early September, the beginning of the harvest season, and we had set up our tent across from the church. The road was empty, except for us and our table of pecans. I would have rather been anywhere else than in front of the church, and I’m pretty sure my brother and sister would have agreed with me. At eleven o’clock on the dot, right when the church bells rang, the double doors opened and the churchgoers with their clean faces and pastel dresses poured out.
A butterfly landed on my forearm. I raised it to eye level. The sunlight shone through its thin, papery wings. The black lines looked as though they had been drawn on with charcoal, letting no light through.
“Josefa! Pay attention!” Mami scolded.
I gently shook off the butterfly, and it flew haphazardly from underneath our tent.
“Mami, why are we even here? These church folks won’t buy from us,” Violeta said. It had been four years of poor sales, and Mami was determined to change that this year. Violeta blamed herself, of course, ever since that day on the playground with Margaret Purty, the rumors were rampant about what she’d done. That’s when people stopped buying from us.
“Because if you can get their leader, you can get the rest of them to follow,” Mami whispered, peering through the crowd. “And I had a dream last night … a dream Pastor Jones was thinking about our pecans.”
Mami was always having dreams, thoughts like that.
The parishioners walked by our stand, many not even tipping a hat to say hello.
“Some church folks,” I muttered.
“Jo,” Mami warned. “They are only afraid of what they do not understand. If you smiled and stood up straight, maybe they would say hello.”
Pastor Jones spotted us from the steps. He continued to shake a few hands, but it was obvious from his craning neck he couldn’t resist.
Mami waved to him, and he lifted his hat.
“You see—I told you,” Mami said under her breath. “Buenos días, Pastor Jones!” She waved.
“Señora Rodríguez, what do we have here?” Pastor Jones bellowed, rubbing his fat belly. His voice was so deep and loud, you felt it rattle your soul when he spoke. That’s what Cynthia Purty told me once, and I couldn’t help but agree. Fiona Jones, his daughter, and Cynthia Purty’s best friend, peered out from behind him, her stringy blond hair hanging on either side of her face.
“Would you like to try one?” I offered a nut to Pastor Jones, and he took it in his chubby fingers.
“They are the world-famous Rodríguez pecans. Sweetest ones you’ll ever taste.” I offered one to Fiona, who stared at me with cold eyes. She shook her head and darted behind her father.
“Fiona is a bit on the shy side,” Pastor Jones said. He placed the nut in his mouth, chewed, and shook his head. “My, oh my, do I love those pecans. I’ve missed them. I’ll take a crate this year.”
“Wonderful,” Mami said, smiling. She shot Raúl a look. He grabbed a full crate from the trailer and set it on the table.
Pastor Jones dipped his hand into the sample bowl, spilling a few on the table. He shook them in his palm before throwing them back in his mouth. “You know, Señora Rodríguez, we’d love it if you and your family would join our congregation. You seem like such good people. I know you’d probably get more business if people got to know you and your family a little better.” Pastor Jones raised an eyebrow. A chewed bit of pecan hung from his lower lip.
“Gracias, Pastor Jones.” Mami nodded. “But my family has been here longer than—” Mami stopped herself, wiping her hands on her apron and smiling. She pushed the crate across the table.
“You are just in need of the Lord—”
“Gracias, Pastor Jones.” Mami’s eyes crinkled so hard from the fake smile it was almost a scowl.
Pastor Jones shook his head, took his crate, and left, Fiona trailing behind.
After Pastor Jones left, the townsfolk lined up to buy their pecans. With his purchase, it was as though we had suddenly been thrust into the light. Cynthia and Margaret Purty stood in line with their mother.
“Buenos días,” Mami said. “What would you like today?”
“We’ll take the same as the pastor.” Mrs. Purty nodded toward the pile of crates.
Violeta began to scoop nuts into an empty crate.
“Mother.” Margaret rubbed a silver scar on her forearm. “I won’t eat them if she touches them.” She pointed right at Violeta and mouthed the word “bruja.”
The color drained from Violeta’s face.
“Margaret.” Mrs. Purty laughed nervously and pushed her daughter’s hand away. “Enough of that.”
“Would you like a sample?” I held a nut out for Cynthia. She sat two rows behind me in school and was usually nice, even though she liked to ask me if I was a bruja every now and then. Cynthia nodded, took it from my palm, and placed it in her mouth.
I offered one to Margaret. She shook her head.
“They are really good, Margaret,” Cynthia said.
Violeta filled the crate and Mrs. Purty paid Mami. Just as they were about to leave, Margaret glanced back and said, “Okay—fine, I’ll try one.”
I smiled, so sweetly, and plucked the nut out of the shell, leaving only the corky bitter part. Raúl shot me a look and then busied himself with a bag on the table. I placed the shell in Mar
garet’s palm and whispered in her ear, “This is my favorite part.”
For a split second I almost felt bad. Almost. But then she turned, glared at Violeta, and popped a corky piece in her mouth.
Her face slackened as she chewed. Margaret spit the bitter part into her hand and threw it on the ground.
I covered my mouth to stifle a giggle.
“Josefa!” Mami snapped.
Raúl and Violeta giggled too. Mrs. Purty hadn’t noticed, but Cynthia winked at me as Margaret clawed at her tongue.
Eleven
THE NEXT morning, a loud roaring sound woke Yolanda. She was warm, wrapped in the yellow serape, but her back ached from sleeping on the hard swing.
She was alone.
Wela was gone. Yolanda sat up and looked around. Hasik was cutting the grass with a weed trimmer, flinging long blades all over the place. It had grown even taller overnight.
She squinted. The grass towered over his head.
How strange. How had it grown so quickly?
She stood and saw the grass went as far as she could see. Now that it was daylight, she could see the lone pecan tree, standing there on top of the butte.
Had it been a dream?
She spotted the empty orange juice glass on the step. It couldn’t have been a dream. She raced inside toward Wela’s bedroom, trailing the serape behind her. Mrs. Patel was in the kitchen burning scrambled eggs.
“Good morning, Yolanda. Isn’t that grass so odd? I asked Hasik to come trim it down a bit.”
“Is she awake?” Yolanda didn’t wait for her answer and slid into the bedroom, her heart racing in her chest.
Her heart sank.
There was Wela, the sheets pulled up to her armpits, asleep. Yolanda walked over to the bed and placed a hand over Wela’s rising chest. Her heart thumped lightly under Yolanda’s hand. It was as though Wela had never moved.
Tears pricked Yolanda’s eyes. It couldn’t have been a dream. It had felt so real. She needed it to be real.
Wela was dying.
“I’m sorry you girls have had to go through all of this.” Mrs. Patel stood in the doorway holding an egg-covered spatula. “I spoke with Abby, and she told me the plan.”