A Dime a Dozen (19 page)

“Snake!” Trinksie said. “Where’s Butch?”

“He’s gettin’ something outta the back room.”

“Well, come on out here yourself and say hello to Mrs. Webber. It is ‘Mrs.,’ isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

The young man stepped closer and offered me a damp handshake, his eyes looking down at the floor.

“Nice to meetcha,” he said, and in the tone and pattern of his speech, I realized that he was developmentally disabled.

“Nice to meet you too,” I replied, bending down a bit so I could catch his gaze. “Did I hear her call you Snake?”

“That’s my nickname,” he said, meeting my eyes and nodding rapidly. “’C-c-cause I’m slick and slithery, and I look just like a snake.”

“My son the snake!” Trinksie cried. “’Ceptin’ he don’t shed his skin, and his tail don’t rattle when he gets all riled!”

They both laughed at what I had a feeling was a familiar joke, and then Snake reached for a leather strap that hung from a belt loop on his hip. At the end of the tied-off strip of leather were about eight small decorative beads.

“I’ll rattle once I get more beads,” he said earnestly, shaking the leather so that the beads clicked against each other. I was about to comment when another man entered the room, a fellow so tall and wide he nearly filled the doorway. I remembered him as Butch Hooper, from the party.

“Well, hello again,” he boomed in a voice that matched his size. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“No, not at all,” I said, shaking his hand. “I have a little cabin just over the top of the mountain.”

“Oh, yeah? Then you and my dad must be neighbors.”

“Did you move here, Callie?” Trinksie asked. “I thought you were just visitin’.”

“I keep it on the market as a rental unit,” I said. “Through Skytop.”

“The little A-frame?” she cried. “That’s an adorable house.”

“Quite a view from there,” Butch added. “My father is just a few doors down. But where are our manners? Callie, would you like some coffee? Tea?”

“Tea would be nice, thank you.”

Trinksie sprang into action and made us some tea while Butch gave me a tour of the small building. Basically, it had the main office area, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom, some storage space filled with boxes and tools, and then another small, windowless room tucked in the very back, with a desk and a chair.

“That’s my dad’s office,” Butch said as he shut the door and we walked to the front. “He’s retired from Hooper Construction, but keeping the books for Su Casa gives him something to do. He always comes in later in the day, answers the phones, does a little paperwork.”

“Mr. Zeb is a sweetheart,” Trinksie said, handing me a cup of hot tea. Then she added in a whisper: “So is Mr. Butch here. He’s been such a help to all of us.”

“Now, Trinksie, don’t flatter me,” Butch said. “We’re all proud of what we’ve accomplished with this agency. But it’s definitely a group effort. Callie, we’ll be happy to answer any questions or show you anything you need to see.”

“Actually,” I said, “I do have some questions for you, and at some point this week I’d love to see an example of the migrant housing.”

“Of course,” he replied. “The dorms are still closed up for the winter, but I can take you over to one, let you in.”

“Oh, I can just peek in the windows,” I said, “if you’ll tell me where to find them.”

He gave me directions to several, and then we sat at a desk and simply chatted for a few minutes. As Snake tended to janitorial-type duties, Trinksie returned to her own desk, where she was sorting, folding, and stuffing envelopes for some kind of mailer. Butch explained that Trinksie had started a few months ago as a fund-raising consultant, but things had worked out so well that she stayed on as a full-time employee.

“I’ve always been good at bringing in the bucks,” she said proudly, “but self-employment is for the birds. I tried to start up a nonprofit consulting business, but I didn’t do very well. I’d rather represent just one company and bring home a steady paycheck.”

“P-plus we get to build things here,” Snake added, though I hadn’t realized he was listening.

“Snake loves it when the dorms go up,” Trinksie said.

“They’re just nothing and then, boom, there’s something!” Snake said excitedly.

“The dorms go up when the different groups come in,” Butch explained, “sort of like Habitat for Humanity. We might spend months drumming up volunteers, gathering materials, lining up the equipment, procuring the land, all of that type of thing. But when a group comes in and gets to work, these places go up in a matter of days. It’s something amazing to see, I’ll tell you.”

“Almost like an Amish barn raisin’ or something,” Trinksie added.

“It sounds exciting,” I said.

“Oh, it is,” Butch said. “We get people building these dormitories who’ve never even held a hammer. Teenagers. Housewives. Suit-and-tie types. You name it. Next thing you know, they’re up there in a hard hat straddling a main joist and hammering away.”

As he described the way their program worked, I thought about the end results of an effort like this. On paper, the migrants were the ones who benefited from the program, because the dormitories were built for them, after all. But there were other, less tangible benefits here as well, since most volunteers were also getting as they were giving, getting things like self-esteem, new skills, and a sense of community.

We talked about funding for the program, and Butch was very forthcoming with the mechanics of their operation. Money for the migrant housing came from a variety of sources, including government programs and private donations. Much of the labor was free, of course, provided by church groups and civic clubs and other bands of volunteers. His father collected only a small salary, since his work here was part time, and Butch donated his efforts entirely, since he served mainly in an advisory capacity and only stopped in occasionally to read the mail or see how things were going.

“We’re a small operation,” Butch said, “but I think we serve a vital purpose.”

I asked about MORE and how it fit into the picture. I was pleased to hear Butch describe how very much they depended on Dean and Natalie’s company for many services, like payroll and volunteer recruitment—not to mention public relations and representation with the county, as well as handling all the paperwork related to the migrants. That was a variation on the same thing I had heard all day from each of the places I had visited.

After talking with them for a while, I said I needed to get on to my next appointment. I thanked all of them for their time and told them I would be in touch if I had any other questions. As I was leaving, Butch opened the door for me and I nearly walked into someone. I took a step back, realizing it was an older gentleman—the same fellow, in fact, whom I passed on the road this morning on my way down the mountain. Now he wore a khaki hat over his shock of white hair, and he was no longer carrying the walking stick.

“Howdy,” he said, nodding at me as he stepped inside. “Didn’t mean to knock into ya.”

“Callie, this is my father,” Butch said. “Zebulon Hooper.”

“How do you do?” I said. “We passed each other on the road earlier.”

“Yes, I think we must be neighbors,” he replied, pulling off his hat, his handshake weathered but very firm. “Nice to meet you. Please call me Zeb.”

The man was as tall as his son, though not nearly so broad. And where Butch was healthy and robust and energetic, his father seemed, most of all, kind of tired.

“Mr. Zeb likes to spend his afternoons in here after we’ve all gone for the day and it’s nice and quiet,” Trinksie said.

“Well, Trinksie,” Zeb said, shaking his head and winking toward me, “no one ever accused you of being quiet.”

Butch and I laughed, Snake grinned, and Trinksie kind of squealed.

“Mr. Zeb!” she cried. “You just hush! Kin I help it if I like to chitter chatter?”

They were still teasing each other and laughing when I finally extricated myself from the group and headed for my car. Mentally, I was exhausted, but I still had to visit Go the Distance Learning Center before my tour of the orchard with Danny Stanford. I started up the car and drove on down the mountain, trying to focus. There was still so much to cover in this investigation, and I wanted to do a good job.

But I also couldn’t deny that much of my mind was preoccupied with the countdown to Tom’s arrival on Sunday, which was tick-tick-ticking in the back of my head like a timer.

Seventeen

After all the talk and laughter of the Su Casa office, the silence of Go the Distance was a peaceful alternative. The building appeared to be empty when I first stepped inside, and then I was startled by a soft tap on my shoulder from behind.

“Whoa!” I said, spinning around and flashing a smile. “I didn’t see you!”

“Sorry,” said Karen Weatherby, the program director I had met at the Webbers’ party two nights before. “I tend to sneak up on people.”

We shook hands, and I thanked her for taking the time to talk with me and show me her facility.

“Oh, I’m thrilled to,” she said, and when she smiled I realized she was quite attractive. I found myself mentally giving her a makeover: lose the headband, work in a few highlights, add a bit more color to her clothing, and she might even be a bit of a knockout. Of course, ever since the transformation of my own new hairstyle, I had to resist the urge to fix up everybody else’s as well!

“Why don’t we start with an overview and then a tour?” she said. “Then we can talk in the back.”

“Sure.”

She started by explaining that Go the Distance was not a school but an “education facilitation center” for migrant children. Most of the kids who traveled during the picking season with their parents were at a real disadvantage when it came to school, she said, because every move meant starting over in a new place with new requirements and a new curriculum. Consequently, migrant teens had a drastically high dropout rate, and children in the lower grades sometimes ended up being taught the same things over and over at each new school they attended as they moved with the harvest. Still others faced huge gaps in their education from subjects they missed completely.

“These kids are already enrolled in their home schools in Texas or Florida,” Karen said, gesturing for me to follow her as we walked through several large, sunny rooms with tables in the middle and shelves of books along the wall, “so the goal of our program is to let them keep ‘attending’ their home schools even when they’re on the road.”

“Interesting.”

“Fortunately, the internet has given us a way to provide continuity in education,” she said, opening the door to a computer lab with about 20 PCs and half as many printers. “The kids go from place to place as their parents follow the picking season, but instead of their having to start over at a new school each time, they simply go to the nearest Go the Distance Learning Center and pick up right where they left off. The goal is to provide them with one single school curriculum that follows them wherever they go.”

“You mean there’s more than just this one?” I asked.

“There will be,” she replied. “Right now the program is in its infancy. But if we can secure the funding, we can put satellite offices all along the main migrant routes. We do have a mobile unit, but I’d rather see some permanent structures go in wherever possible.”

The whole operation was very impressive, and she said that if I stuck around for a while, I could observe the kids actually using the program. Today their schedule was a little mixed up and they would be coming in for a few hours this afternoon.

“Currently, the only students I have enrolled are Pepe and Adriana Morales,” she said. “And they really should be back at school in Texas by now. But they’ve had some family problems that have kept them in town, so I let them continue with the program.”

“Yes, I’ve met Luisa.”

“In a way, having them here has been very helpful to me. They’re good kids, and working with them has given me the opportunity to familiarize myself with the entire curriculum.”

“Do they come every day?”

“Pretty much five days a week,” she replied, glancing at her watch. “Though lately their schedule has been a bit erratic.”

I commented on the big old building, saying that there was something very warm and welcoming about it.

“I agree,” she said, smiling. “It is pleasant here, despite the sagging floors and the creaking stairs.”

“Was it a house at some point?” I asked.

“It still is, upstairs,” she replied. “In fact, right now I’m using it as an apartment.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s pretty handy. All you have to do is walk downstairs and you’re at work.”

“It gets a bit claustrophobic sometimes,” she admitted, “but, yes, it is convenient.”

“What does your husband do?” I asked, wondering if there was a Mr. Weatherby and how he felt about sharing his home with a school.

“No husband,” she replied quickly. “I’m divorced.”

Once my tour was complete, Karen led me down a narrow hallway to a bright and sunny room at the far end. Judging by the buckets of safety scissors, the tub of glitter, and the multicolored splatters of paint that had dried on the hard wooden table, I decided this must be the art room.