Authors: Julia Alvarez
Return to Sender (17 page)
The room is deathly still. Up onstage, Roger Charlebois, who's leading the meeting, asks in a croaky voice, “Anyone want to second that motion?” Everyone knows that Roger has a half- dozen Mexicans working on his dairy farm.
A voice comes from somewhere in the middle of the lunchroom. “I'll second the motion.” It's only when the per-son has to identify himself that Tyler makes the connection: Mr. Lacroix, Clayton's father. Beside his dad, Clayton is sitting on the edge of his chair like he's ready to third the motion, even though it's not required.
The floor is open for discussion of the motion. Tyler knows his father's not the type to speak up in front of a whole bunch of people. But his mother is another story. Any injustice or prejudice, Mom is up in arms. Please, God, Tyler prays. He'll forgo the trip to D.C. All Tyler wants for his birthday is for his mom not to get up and call attention to the fact that the Paquettes are harboring Mexicans.
Roger is pointing his gavel in Tyler's direction. For a panicky moment, Tyler thinks he's being called on. The up-standing young man who led the assembly in the Pledge of Allegiance will now weigh in on what he thinks of migrant Mexicans working on the local farms.
“Yes, I have a word to say to Mr. Rossetti and a reminder to all of us.” It's Mr. Bicknell, who has stood up behind Tyler.
His teacher's voice has the same urgent- persuasive tone as when he's talking about saving the planet. “First, Mr. Ros-setti, I want to ask you where you got the name Rossetti.”
“From my father, where else?” the old man snaps back in a smart- alecky voice. A few people snicker, but there's less laughter in the room than Mr. Rossetti seems to have ex-pected, because he gets even crankier and says, “What's your point, Bobby?” Calling Mr. Bicknell Bobby! Tyler feels shocked, even though his teacher's first name is Robert.
“My point, Mr. Rossetti, with all due respect, is that Rossetti is an Italian name.” Mr. Bicknell holds up his hands as Mr. Rossetti starts to interrupt. “I know, I know. Your fam-ily's been here forever, since the 1880s, when Vermont needed cheap labor to work on the marble and granite quar-ries in Proctor and Barre. In 1850 there were seven Italians in Vermont, seven, Mr. Rossetti. By 1910 there were four thousand five hundred and ninety- four. What if Vermonters had raised an outcry about these foreigners endangering our sovereign state and nation? Many of us wouldn't be here. Plus we'd have missed out on great builders, hard workers, and terrific pizza.”
Now there is genuine laughter. A few people even clap. Roger Charlebois bangs his gavel lightly like he's only doing it because he's supposed to.
Mr. Rossetti has turned pale. He sways a little as if stunned by Mr. Bicknell's flood of facts. It makes Tyler feel kind of sorry for the old man. He has heard his mother talk about how Mr. Rossetti lives all alone at the edge of town in a run- down little house with an American flag on
his front porch and a sign that reads take back Vermont on his weedy lawn.
“And one more thing, Mr. Rossetti,” Mr. Bicknell goes on. “Not only would we Vermonters have missed out on this rich heritage had we booted out all those Italians, we wouldn't have you here today to keep us all on our toes.”
You've got to be kidding, Tyler thinks. Snickers and laughter ripple across the room. But Mr. Bicknell isn't having any of it. “I'm serious. Mr. Rossetti is passionate about his country. Whether or not we share his ideas, we would do well to learn that much from him.”
The room goes quiet again. It's as if they are all being reminded of something so easy to forget—how to be a decent human being.
“But the bottom line is that this country, and particularly this state, were built by people who gave up everything in search of a better life, not just for themselves, but for their children. Their blood, sweat, and tears formed this great nation.”
Tyler hears a sniffle and looks over at Mari. Her head is bent and there are spots on her notebook where her tears are falling. He wishes he could think of something to say to comfort her. Instead he writes down in his notebook,
Thank you for helping save our farm,
and passes it over so that Mari can read it. Spots keep falling on the page, too late for words to stop them.
Mr. Rossetti's motion is voted down almost unanimously. For the first time ever, Tyler feels he has been part of the making of history. Not because he carried the flag and led everyone in saying the Pledge of Allegiance, but because he has seen democracy in action. People speaking up and reminding each other of the most noble and generous principles that are the foundation of being an American as well as a good person. Mr. Bicknell summed it up best: “We're all born human beings. But we have to earn that
e
at the end of
human
with our actions so we can truly call ourselves humane beings.”
As they file out, people come by to congratulate Mr. Bicknell. One of them is Tyler's mother, who throws her arms around Mr. Bicknell and gives him a great big hug. Oh well, at least Mom waited to embarrass Tyler until after the meeting was over.
“You have my vote,” she gushes as if Mr. Bicknell were running for some office. “What you said was just so right-on.”
“Your son did a mighty fine job himself,” Mr. Bicknell responds to Mom's compliments. It's as if he is embarrassed and wants to deflect some attention over to Tyler.
Mom smiles fondly at Tyler. “He never breathed a word about opening the meeting! You know his birthday's tomorrow, International Women's Day.” Mom goes into full gear. What a gift Tyler is as a son. How he has always been so thoughtful, sensitive, ready to help out. (He has?)
“You're absolutely right.” Mr. Bicknell winks at Tyler. “When I had to decide who should lead us, I couldn't think of a better man.”
A. Better. Man.
Wow! Talk about amazing compliments! But instead of a burst of pride, Tyler feels the heavy weight of the wad in his pocket. It might as well be a rock pulling him down into a dark, lost place. He doesn't deserve such high praise from his favorite teacher.
Outside in the hall, a commotion has erupted. Some-one's shouting, “I've been robbed! I've been robbed!” Hobbling back into the lunchroom, Mr. Rossetti is waving his cane again and hollering. The story comes out in pieces. He went to the bank to cash his Social Security check before coming to the meeting. Just now when he reached in for his car keys, he realized his money was gone. For the second time this evening he is in such a state that he begins to totter from rage. Arms reach out to catch him as he falls. People are shouting instructions left and right. “Is Dr. Fein-berg still around?” someone shouts. But Dr. Feinberg slipped out earlier when he got an emergency call from the hospital. “Somebody call 911.” A bunch of people pull out cell phones.
Tyler lunges forward to the old man's side and kneels down beside him. The old man's eyes are screwed shut and his face is pale as death. This is what Gramps probably looked like right before he died. Maybe that's why Tyler doesn't even think about waiting until tomorrow to do what he now knows he should do today.
Tyler shakes the old man's shoulders. “I found your money, Mr. Rossetti,” he whispers, hoping no one else can hear him. He's not yet brave enough to confess in front of everybody that he almost kept the money.
The old man's eyes fly open. They are a sad, lonely brown, like Mari's eyes when she talks about Mexico or her mother.
“Really?” The old man's face floods with relief. A small smile works itself like a ripple through the muscles of his face. “There's a reward,” he whispers back.
But Tyler has gotten his reward already. It's as if he has cut himself loose from a heavy stone tied around his heart. Maybe he is not a hero, or a patriot, or even an upstanding young man. But Tyler feels older and wiser, as if he has both lost and found himself this town meeting night.
18 marzo 2006
To all my family in Las Margaritas: I hope this letter finds you well!
Abuelota, we are especially happy to hear that you are feeling a lot better. Of course, when you learned Tío Felipe was in jail, you got worse. That is why we did not want to tell you at first. Now we know that there was something you were not telling us! Had Papá and Tío Armando known that you'd been taken to the hospital after receiving the news, they would have rushed down to see you.
Never before have we sent a letter because according to Papá, you don't really have a good mail system. Phone calls to the local store work much better. And of course, we send money to the Western Union office that has opened in town now that so many people from Las Margaritas are working all over the United States. But somehow, it feels extra special to send you our greetings in writing and know that this very same piece of paper I've touched will soon be in your hands.
I apologize for any mistakes in my Spanish. The only time I get to practice writing it is in
letters or in my Spanish class with our wonderful teacher, whose family is also from México.
Before I forget, Tío Felipe, thank you for calling to let us know that you arrived safely. You can't imagine how relieved we were! But the one who was the most relieved was the
patrón's
older son, Ben. It was as if a stone tied around his neck for the last few months had been cut loose. I think I saw tears in his eyes, but I can't be sure.
He was here on Sunday for the party we threw to thank everyone who helped us during those trying months. This was the second gathering in a week, as Tyler had his birthday party on Wednesday. We invited everyone to come in the early afternoon, so we would have plenty of time before the evening milking. Papá and I made chicken with mole sauce, your recipe, Tío Felipe, which didn't taste half as good as when you make it. But everyone was full of compliments, especially your friend, Alyssa, you met at that party.
She drove over with Ben, as they attend the same university. Alyssa repeated her offer of taking anything we wanted to send as she is going to Chiapas to volunteer at a clinic for her spring vacation. Tomorrow she'll come over to pick up this letter along with Wilmita, who is so lonely for you, Tío Felipe.
Señora Ramírez also came to our party, and
she brought her gringo we have heard so much about. Barry is round and fat and jolly with a stomach that he says gets him a job every Christmas at the mall as the Santa Claus. He doesn't know a word of Spanish, but Señora Ramírez is working on teaching him.
That must be why he is so interested in learning the meanings of words. He wanted to know why we call our grandparents Abuelote and Abuelota instead of Abuelo and Abuela, which Señora Ramírez taught him were the names for grandfather and grandmother. I tried to explain how we use Abuelita and Abuelito for one set of grandparents, which is like saying “little grandmother” and “little grandfather,” and we call the other set of grandparents—
“Abuelota and Abuelote,” Ofie butted in. She always wants to be the one to tell the stories as long as she doesn't have to write them down. “You know why?”
Barry looked very sorry that he didn't know why.
“Because they're fat,” little Luby piped up.
“Don't!” Ofie scolded. She was annoyed at Luby for giving away one of the best parts of her story. Now she knew how I felt.
“I still don't get it,” Barry said.
Luby puffed up her cheeks to show what she meant by fat.
“They're not that fat!” Ofie contradicted.
“They are too,” Luby insisted.
I couldn't believe it! Here they were arguing about what you look like, Abuelota and Abuelote, and neither one has ever laid eyes on you. And they were both partly right. I had told them that you were heavier and taller than Abuelito and Abuelita, not that you were fat.
“Abue
lote
and Abue
lota,
“ I explained to Barry while my two little sisters continued their disagreement. “A lot more of them, get it?”
Barry thought this was very funny and laughed a ho-ho-ho laugh, which must be another reason he gets hired as Santa Claus. Then he patted his big belly and asked if his name in Spanish would be Barrylote? Before I could think how rude it was, I answered, “No, your name would be Barrigón.”
Señora Ramírez laughed so hard. Papá opened his eyes at me with a silent rebuke. He must have been surprised. Usually it's Ofie saying the rude things in our family.
“What's so funny?” Barry kept asking.
Señora Ramírez explained that I was making a joke, as
barrigón
means “fat belly” in Spanish. Now my joke didn't seem so funny to me. But Barry laughed his ho-ho-ho laugh again. “You might seem shy, but you are a hot little tamale, aren't you?” I don't know if he was referring to my
red face or my fresh tongue. He asked me to call him Barrigón from now on, but no way will I be that rude again on purpose.
Abuelito, these greetings are also for you. You must be missing Abuelita so much! We are sorry that we don't speak to you as often as to our other grandparents. Since you live farther out in the countryside, it is difficult to coordinate when we can call the store that you will be there.
We hear news of you from our uncles in California, who call us from time to time. Always we talk about Mamá. They were the last ones to see her, as they had all traveled north together before they parted ways. My uncles would have accompanied Mamá the whole way, but they already had jobs lined up in California, and Mamá was coming back to Carolina del Norte. I'm not real sure of the way it works as Papá doesn't really like to talk about these matters with me. Depending on where you want to end up and how much you want to pay, you go to one border town or another to be crossed over by a
coyote.
Mamá's coyote had a contact on a reservation, who was going to bring her in an extra- special safe way.
Abuelito, I pray every day to Abuelita in heaven that she look after Mamá and bring her back to us. And I think my prayers might be working! There have been some strange phone
calls at the
patrón's
number next door, a woman speaking in Spanish. Just yesterday, there was another call, but this time it was a man's voice. The
patrón's
wife only knows a little Spanish, including her numbers up to ten, so she repeated our telephone number slowly several times. She said the guy got real quiet as if he were writing the number down.
I worry that maybe the caller tried to call and we were already gone to school and Papá and Tío Armando were still at the barn milking. The
patrón's
wife says she herself would have missed the call altogether, if she hadn't forgotten a math test she was giving that day and had to go back home to pick it up. I just hope and pray that the caller will keep trying again and again until he reaches us.
I try not to worry too much. It helps that we have found such nice
patrones
here in Vermont. Tío Felipe can tell you they treat us like we are their family. In fact, the grandmother insists we call her Grandma. Ofie and Luby actually think of her as their only grandmother as they have never met their Mexican ones. I tell them all about you, Abuelito and Abuelote and Abuelota, so they at least know you through my stories. One nice thing that Alyssa did this last Sunday was take all our pictures. She also promised that she'd bring back photos, so we can catch up on what
everyone looks like. That will settle it once and for all, Abuelota and Abuelote, how fat you really are!
Ofie and Luby have spoken with you on the phone, so you probably have noticed how they're forgetting their Spanish. Sometimes I even have to translate between Papá and them, imagine! Papá gets upset, but we can't really blame them. All they know is the United States, and they spend their days in school or at Grandma's house, speaking English. Of course, if Mamá were here, it would be different. She always was so proud of México and told us many stories about her life there. Papá works so hard, and when he gets home, all he wants to do is throw himself down on the couch and watch the Spanish channels. It makes him feel happy to be hearing his own language and seeing people who look like us even if they're only on TV. Tío Felipe can also tell you that this state is full of white people, so Mexicans stand out and that makes it easy for
la migra
to catch us.
Besides the grandmother, the wife, and the
patrón,
the family includes three children: one older son I mentioned, Ben, who is studying at the university; a pretty teenage girl, Sara, who is always changing boyfriends; and my special friend, Tyler, who is in my class at school and was my same age up until last week.
I used to feel so alone, neither Mexican nor American. But now that I have a special friend, I feel like I don't have to be one thing or another. Friendship is a country everyone can belong to no matter where you are from.
That's what I wrote about last month for Valentine's Day. Mr. Bicknell had thought up a creative assignment. Instead of sending valentines, he wanted us to write a love story that had happened to us this past year.
He got a bunch of groans in response. “Now hold on, guys,” he said, grinning. “I want you to be creative. I mean love in all its dimensions, not just the girl- boy variety!” He stood at the board with a piece of chalk and we had to come up with different kinds of love.
The girls were extra giggly for some reason, and the boys went wild with crazy suggestions, like love for your pet snake or vampire love, where you want to suck somebody's blood!
I decided to write about how we had come to Vermont to help the Paquette family, and what good friends they had been to us. How Tyler had taught me about the stars, and the grandmother had showed us how to bake cookies and given us her extra TV so we wouldn't get bored.
On Valentine's Day, Mr. Bicknell asked us to read our love stories out loud. When I read mine,
Mr. Bicknell asked the class what kind of love I was talking about.
“She's in love with Tyler?” Ashley asked. The girls all started giggling again. The boys hooted. I didn't dare look over at Tyler, but he couldn't have been more mortified than I was.
That day after school, Tyler told me I shouldn't have done that.
I wasn't sure what part of what I had done I shouldn't have done, so I asked him.
“Well, for one thing, telling about your working on our farm. It could get my parents into trouble.”
“I didn't say anything about us not having papers,” I defended myself. For some reason, I didn't want to keep quiet anymore. “Besides, why do we always have to hide how hard we are working? We are not criminals!”
I should have just dropped it right there, but it felt so good to speak up for once. “You yourself say that if it hadn't been for our help you would have lost the farm.”
Now it was Tyler who was angry. I can always tell because his pale face flushes with color. “It's not like we don't pay you.”
There we stood, glaring at each other, both mad and hurt and confused. This was happening out in the front of the school as we waited for our
bus. Ofie was standing by, all ears, ready to jump in with her opinion. But just then, along come these two bullies in our class, Ronnie and Clayton. The minute they spotted Tyler and me standing together they started chanting a little rhyme:
Tyler and María
sitting in a tree
K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
I didn't think Tyler could turn any redder, but he did! Now I saw another reason why Tyler was upset with me. He had been the only boy in our class to feature in a girl's love story.
Usually, Tyler will avoid a fight, but he lunged at these two guys, throwing his fists around. Meanwhile, Mr. Rawson, our bus driver, must have seen what was happening, as he came bounding out of his bus to separate them. “Paquette, inside,” he ordered Tyler, jerking his head toward our bus. “You two, beat it unless you want to go pay Mrs. Stevens an after- school visit.”
And that was that. Peace was enforced, but not inside my heart.
Tyler and I soon mended our friendship, especially as his birthday approached. But his words still stung every time I remembered them.
He didn't really appreciate how my father and uncles had helped save his family's farm. It was like we had only done it for the money.
But then Mr. Bicknell gave us another one of his creative assignments. Our class had to attend the town's yearly gathering and write a report about it. At this meeting, Mr. Bicknell stood up and said such beautiful words about people who come to this country because of necessity, and how they are not just helping their families back home, but helping build this great country.
Maybe Tyler's ingratitude had worn an extra- sensitive place in my heart. I began to cry. Tyler must have noticed my tears because he wrote me a thank- you note that made all the difference.
I better hurry up and finish this as Alyssa leaves tomorrow on her spring vacation. Ours won't be until the third week in April. Tyler really wants to go down to this nation's capital with a club he belongs to. But it is very expensive, and although they seem rich to us, the family cannot afford to pay for the trip. The club itself is going to hold a bake sale, which the grandmother is organizing.
But that money has to be divided twelve ways among all the members. Tyler thought he could make up the difference with birthday money, but he did not receive as much as he was counting
on. His rich aunt and uncle never even sent him a card.
But then there was an article in the paper about Tyler's club and how they were raising money to go to the nation's capital on a field trip. The picture showed all the members and gave their names. Imagine being famous enough at twelve to have your picture in a newspaper! Right after it was published, Tyler got a call from this old man in town, offering him work for pay. Tyler would go after school a couple of times a week and on weekends and help the old man do things he can't do anymore on account of he's too old, like shovel his walk or help him take out the garbage or carry in his groceries.
This was just what Tyler had been hoping for because his family can't afford to pay him for helping out with the farmwork here, which Tyler will still keep doing, as he is a very hard worker. “You could almost be a Mexican,” Papá has complimented him more than once.