Breaking Through (6 page)

Papá was sure the fumigation had taken care of the problem. He pulled out the dead plants and replaced them with new ones. Every day he examined the dying plants to look for new growth. When he did not see any change, he checked with other sharecroppers: their plants were dying too. The green fields were again covered with dark brown patches. The rancher had the soil tested and found out that the chemicals used to prepare it had been too strong; they had killed the plants.

From that day on, Papá's spirit began to die too. His moods changed from day to day. He began to complain about his back and got angry about everything and everyone, especially Mamá. At times, there was nothing she did that pleased him. He complained to her about work, the kids, the food, the noise, the neighbors. After work, he would throw his black lunch pail on the table, go in his room, and not say a word to anyone. He listened to Mexican music on the radio, smoked, and consumed more aspirin than food. He began to lose weight. "We must be cursed," he said angrily one day after supper. Like Papá, I felt angry and wondered if he was right.

Papá's black mood spilled over into our social life. He did not like Roberto and me to leave the house except for work.

One Saturday night Roberto and I asked his permission to go out."Where do you want to go?" he asked, looking up at the ceiling. Roberto and I waited for the other to respond. "Where!" he said impatiently.

"To the Vets, Papá," Roberto finally said, looking scared.

"What's that?"

"It's a hall where they have dances," I said, figuring it was my turn to answer.

Papá kept staring into space. Roberto and I stood in front of him with our hands folded in front of us, waiting for a response. There was a long and painful silence.
Why do we have to go through this torture every time we want to go out?
I asked myself. I glanced at Roberto and rolled my eyes.

"Well, are you going to let us go?" I said impatiently. Roberto glanced at me with terror in his eyes and nudged me with his elbow. I knew I had crossed the line.

"I don't like your tone of voice, Pancho. Who do you think you are?" Papá shot back angrily, clenching his teeth and giving me a penetrating look that sent chills up my spine. I lowered my head. My legs began to shake.

"Look at me when I am talking to you!" he said angrily. His words pierced like needles. Mamá must have been listening, because she walked in and broke my silence.

"Let them go,
viejo.
They are good kids; they've never gotten into trouble, even when they lived by themselves," she said softly.

Papá relaxed his jaw and lit a cigarette. "Fine. Roberto can go, but not you, Pancho. You stay home," he said firmly. His eyes were on fire. "And don't you ever talk to me in that tone of voice again, understood?"

"Yes," I responded. My voice cracked. Roberto gave me another nudge. "I am sorry," I added politely.

"No one disrespects me, especially my children," he said. "Be home by midnight. And take the two empty bottles and fill them with water at the gas station on your way back."

I helped Roberto load the two five-gallon bottles that we used for getting our drinking water into the trunk of his car.

"You have to be more patient with Papá," Roberto said.

"I know he's sick, but I am tired of his ugly moods."

"But talking back gets you nowhere," he said. "See, now you can't go with me to the Vets."

"I know," I said sadly.

The bottles rattled in the back of the trunk as my brother left without me. I went back into the house feeling furious with Papá and myself.

We had lost our three acres of strawberries, and I felt sad for Papá. But I was also relieved, because I did not have to work late in the evenings and miss days of school anymore. I had more time to study. I caught up in math and took the second seat in the first row. Margie Ito continued to take the first seat. She was unmovable. In social studies I scored ninety-nine percent on the final test on the United States Constitution. I struggled in my English class but always did well on spelling tests, which we had once a week. I wrote the spelling words in my notepad and studied them as I worked.

The hardest task for me was writing a final paper for my science class. We were to pick any science topic, research it, and write a report on it. I had a hard time deciding on a topic. Nothing came to mind. Then one day as I was flipping through a history book, I came across a brief section on Christopher Columbus and the discovery of the New World. As I skimmed it, my eye caught the name Hernán Cortés. I was fascinated. It was the first time I had read about someone with a Spanish name. I read the paragraph several times and said the name Hernán Cortés out loud. I liked the sound of it. His name ended with a "z" sound just like my family's last name. I felt proud. I began to wonder what it was like to be an explorer over four hundred years ago.

Then an idea for my report came to me: I would explore the solar system. I went to the library, checked out books on the moon and the planets, and read them, taking notes. I created a story about a group of six scientists who decide to explore part of the solar system. The scientists were Roberto and I, cocaptains; and Trampita, Torito, Rorra, and Rubén, our assistants. We built a spaceship and traveled to seven planets and the moon. We explored each planet, in order of increasing distance from the sun: Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune, and Pluto. I kept a journal on our explorations and made drawings to illustrate our findings. Mr. Milo, also my science teacher, gave me an A+ on the report, even though I had made several grammatical mistakes in it. He told me I had a good imagination and said he had displayed my report at Open House the night before. I did not know what he meant by Open House, and I was more confused when he said he missed meeting my parents on that evening.

A few days before the end of the school year, our class practiced for graduation in the auditorium, which also served as the cafeteria. We lined up outside in the corridor in alphabetical order and marched in to music played on a record player. We walked up the stairs to the stage, where we sat in cold metal chairs. We repeated this exercise several times until we got it right. We were told to wear dark pants and a white shirt. Girls were to wear a white blouse and dark skirt.

All day Saturday, I kept thinking about graduation. I was excited about leaving El Camino Junior High School and starting Santa Maria High School on time in the fall. When Papá and I got home from work at six o'clock, Mamá had already heated water in a pot for my bath. I washed my hair with Fab detergent and scrubbed my hands extra hard with Ajax to get rid of the strawberry stains. I put on a clean pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. "You can't wear that T-shirt,
mijo,
" Mamá cried out. "It's yellowish and frayed."

"It's the best one I have."

"Here, Panchito, wear this one. It's whiter than yours," Roberto said, handing me one of his T-shirts. I tried it on. It was a little big, but it was better than the one I had. "You look pretty good," he said, chuckling. "All you need are a few more muscles like me to fill it."

"Thanks, Mr. Atlas," I said, laughing.

"You'd better hurry. It's getting late," Mamá said. She
rubbed Tres Rosas oil in my hair and helped me comb it. Papá, who was in a rare good mood, splashed some of his Old Spice aftershave lotion on my face. His large, callused hands felt like old leather gloves.

"I don't want you to smell like rotten strawberries," he said, smiling. "If you smell like me, nobody will want to get near you." He took off his Saint Christopher medal, which he wore around his neck, and handed it to me. "Here,
mijo,
" he said, "I want you to have this. It will guide you."

"
Gracias,
Papá," I said, admiring the worn-out image between my fingers. The medal was linked to a chain similar to the pull-cord attached to the light bulb hanging in the middle of our kitchen. Papá had worn the medal ever since I could remember. "Are you sure you want to give it to me?"

"Of course," he answered. "It's your present for finishing the eighth grade." He stood up slowly and hugged me. I noticed the necklace had left a white ring around his sunburned neck.

"You'd better get going!" Mamá insisted, giving Roberto and me a slight shove. "May God bless you."

Roberto and I arrived at El Camino Junior High School a few minutes late. I ran down the corridor looking for my spot in line. My classmates were already waiting. I saw Robert Lindsay and moved in front of him. I was glad to see that he was wearing a T-shirt too, because most of the
boys were wearing collared white shirts. They looked like penguins. Mr. McEacheron, the P.E. coach, walked up and down the hall, trying to keep us from making too much noise. Parents and friends milled around the cafeteria, waiting for the ceremony to start. As soon as we heard the music, we quieted down and began the procession. When we entered the auditorium, I spotted Roberto in the audience. I imagined Papá and Mamá sitting next to him, their faces glowing as my name was called to receive my diploma.

The summer after graduation from junior high was pretty much the same as those of previous years, except that I was the only one who joined Papá in picking strawberries for Ito. Roberto came only on Saturdays and Sundays because he worked full-time as a janitor for the Santa Maria school district. I looked forward to weekends, when my brother, Papá, and I worked together. Roberto and I found ways to have fun. We raced to see who could pick faster and fill more crates. He was a much faster picker than I was, so I lost every time, except when Papá helped me. Whenever Papá and I picked side by side, he handed me handfuls of strawberries. Papá never let on that he knew about our game, but I figured he must have known, because one time when I filled my crate faster than Roberto he glanced at my brother and winked at me.

One morning I started a strawberry war. I had learned the spelling and definition of the word
skirmish,
which I had added to my notepad to memorize that day. I was bored and tired of picking on my knees, so I stood up to stretch. Roberto was ahead of me, two rows away. I could not resist the perfect target. I picked up a rotten strawberry, looked around to make sure Papá was not looking, and threw it at Roberto. The mushy bullet splashed on his back, leaving a reddish, purplish wound the size of a baseball. My brother turned around, startled. He knew I was the enemy when he saw me snickering. He raised his clenched fist at me, turned back, and kept on picking.

I glanced at Ito. He had a puzzled look on his face but did not say anything.
I hope he didn't see me,
I thought. I continued working and, to keep my mind occupied, began whistling rock 'n' roll tunes and daydreaming about Peggy and the Vets. I danced song after song with her. Suddenly I felt a blow on the back of my right shoulder. I instinctively reached behind with my left hand and scooped up a rotten strawberry. I turned around. Roberto was picking on his knees behind me, four rows away. He had his head down, trying to hide his smirk. At lunchtime Roberto and I put on our jackets to hide our strawberry stains.

When we got home, we quickly took off our shirts. Mamá saw the stains, shook her head, and gave us a stern look. I knew she would not tell Papá because she did not want to upset him.

That evening, Ito was coming to our house to deliver our paychecks for the week. I was afraid he might have seen me throw the strawberry at Roberto and say something to Papá. I was terribly nervous.

In preparation for his visit, we all made sure the house was in order. Roberto swept and wet-mopped the floors. I cleaned the kitchen. Trampita and Torito picked up papers and trash outside the house that dogs had scattered from the garbage cans. Rorra followed them, making sure they did not miss anything. Mamá made a fresh batch of flour tortillas and refried beans to give to Ito. Papá sat at the kitchen table, giving orders and going over our savings, which he kept in a small metal box.

Ito arrived shortly after we had finished our chores. He was dressed up as usual, in khaki pants and shirt and brown shoes. His dark, straight hair was combed back, and his tan face looked smooth and shiny. I fixed my eyes on every move he made and hung on every word he said, trying to see if he was upset with me. He and Papá shook hands and bowed. Ito took a seat at the head of the table, took out his checkbook, and placed it in front of him. Mamá offered him
taquitos. "No, gracias,
" he said in a thick American accent.

There were long periods of silence, because Ito spoke only English and Papá spoke only Spanish. Mamá, Roberto, and I interpreted for both of them. Ito began to write the three checks. I knew Papá's check was for sixtyfive dollars, because he got paid a dollar an hour. Roberto and I received eighty-five cents per hour, just like the
braceros.
Ito paid Papá more than us because Papá was a better picker and because he had worked for Ito for several summers. Papá felt special and looked for ways to show Ito his gratitude. When it was time to quit work at the end of the day, Papá kept on picking for another ten or fifteen minutes even though he did not receive pay for the extra time.

When Ito finished making out the checks, he handed them to Papá.

"
Pregúntale si quiere algo para tomar,
" Papá said, bowing his head and smiling.

"Papá asked if you would like something to drink," I said.

"
No, gracias,
Don Francisco," Ito responded, bowing to Papá.

"I made some
taquitos
for you to take home," Mamá said proudly. She handed Ito a bundle of refried bean tacos wrapped in waxed paper. Ito's eyes lit up.

"My wife and kids love your tacos," he said.

"Don Gabriel really liked Mamá's
taquitos
too," I said. "Remember him, Mr. Ito?"

"Of course I remember him," Ito responded. "He worked for me a few years ago. Díaz, the labor contractor, had it in for him and sent him back to Mexico." Ito paused, looked straight into my eyes, and, raising his voice, added,
"He was a good, serious worker." I lowered my head. Ito looked at his watch and excused himself. Papá and Mamá walked him to the door. I followed behind. He got in his pickup truck, waved, and said, chuckling: "You have a good arm, Panchito." I blushed and looked away.