Authors: Julia Alvarez
The room is small, with a glass wall at the far end. In front of it are two chairs and a narrow counter with a phone on top. On the other side of the glass, the same arrange-ment. It turns out that prisoners and visitors talk by phone, looking at each other through that thick, probably bulletproof glass. Now Tyler understands what his mom meant by a no-contact visit. There is no way he's going to be able to hand over Mari's letter.
“Just call me when you're done,” the deputy says, nodding at a wall phone by the door. As he leaves, locking them in, Tyler feels a jolt of fear. And here he's just
visiting.
Imagine what Felipe must be feeling.
After a few minutes, the door on the other side of the
glass partition opens. The same deputy leads Felipe out and nods to where he's supposed to sit. Felipe looks around war-ily like he might have been dropped off in some room where he's going to be tortured. When he spots Tyler and Mom standing on the other side of the glass, his face breaks into a huge grin. Tyler waves to him and he waves back.
First Mom introduces Ms. Ramírez and Mr. Calhoun. They sit in the two front chairs, handing the phone back and forth, Mr. Calhoun explaining, Ms. Ramírez translating. They tell Felipe what all is in store for him. The crim-inal hearing once the holidays are over. The sentencing. Then the deportation hearing. Even though Tyler can't hear what Felipe is saying at his end, he can tell that the poor guy is getting more and more heavyhearted with the news.
“Please do assure him that I'm going to try to get this criminal stuff dropped. Ask him if he's got any kind of a record.”
Felipe shakes his head when Ms. Ramírez translates. But then he hesitates and tells some crazy story about a little dog in North Carolina that a lady he worked for thought he stole. Maybe she reported him to the police. Mr. Calhoun takes notes.
When it's finally Tyler's turn, he feels awkward and shy, like when he has to talk on the phone to Aunt Roxie and Uncle Tony.
“Hola, ¿cómo estás?”
he starts. Behind him, he can feel Ms. Ramírez beaming at how good his Spanish pronunciation has gotten.
Felipe seems genuinely happy to visit with Tyler. He
rattles off some stuff in Spanish, but every once in a while he switches into English. How're Mari, Ofie, Luby?
¿Mis hermanos?
which Tyler knows means his brothers. Please give them my greetings. And Sara and Tyler's dad? And Ben? Tell Ben not to feel bad. How's Oklahoma, Wyoming, Nevada? And Wilmita? Is she very sad?
Tyler laughs. Even behind bars, on the other side of bulletproof glass, Felipe hasn't lost his sense of humor.
“I have a letter for you,” Tyler finally says, reaching into his pocket. He can't read it because, of course, it's in Span-ish. Somehow, he knows having Ms. Ramírez read it over the phone won't be the same as Felipe reading it himself. So he unfolds the letter and holds page after page flat against the glass, half expecting some alarm to go off.
Tyler doesn't know what the letter says, but as Felipe's eyes move across each page, his face softens with feeling. When he is done with the last page, he puts his palm on the glass where the paper is, then rests his head on the back of his hand. Tyler tries to hold his own hand steady, willing himself not to cry.
When Felipe drops his hand, Tyler can see he, too, is fighting back tears. He really is just a kid, no disguising it, with man-sized troubles.
“Thank you, my friend,” he tells Tyler in English over the phone. “My Christmas today.”
This is what Christmas is all about, Tyler thinks as they drive home. What Mary and Joseph must feel at that last
posada
house when the door flies open and there's room for them inside after all. Tyler can't wait to tell Mari exactly
how he delivered her letter. In fact, he decides to write down everything that Felipe said and put it in a card and give it to Mari as a present tomorrow.
Back home, he is writing away when the phone starts ringing down the hall. It's probably Mari calling for the Cruzes to find out how the visit went. But no, the minute they arrived, his mother and Ms. Ramírez and Mr. Calhoun headed for the trailer with their report. They did promise not to tell Mari about Tyler's surprise.
Down the hall in the kitchen, Sara is saying,
“Un momento, por favor.”
And then she is calling for Tyler in this excited, house-on-fire voice. “Tyler!!! Tyler!!! Run next door and get one of the Cruzes. I think it's the mother!”
Tyler bolts out of his house like it is on fire. But the only thing burning is the happy tears in his eyes, borrowed from his sadness. He can't believe it himself, but merry Christmas! Mari may be getting every one of her wishes after all!
24 diciembre 2005
We have been so worried about you since that horrible night three weeks ago when the
patrón's
wife came over with the news that you had been stopped by the police.
(Although this letter is in Spanish, I don't want to mention any names and get anybody in trouble. My family's won't matter since nobody at the jail knows us anyhow.)
Neither Papá nor Tío Armando realized that you were going off the farm when you accepted the invitation from the
patrón's
son. They assumed the party would take place at the
patrón's
house. But they say that they don't blame you. You deserve a little fiesta now and then after the hard way you have been working to help the whole
familia
since you were fourteen and came to this country! And before that, Papá has told us, when you were even younger than little Luby, you were already helping Abuelote farm in Las Margaritas.
Finally, thanks to the Virgen of Guadalupe, to whom I made a special petition, we have found out where you are. We feel so much calmer knowing you are close by, even if you are behind
bars. I don't think any of us in the family could stand someone else we love disappearing, like Mamá has disappeared. (Ten days ago marked one whole year since we last saw her. I cried so hard…. But I don't want to make you any sadder.)
Papá and Tío Armando want me to send you special thanks for running
away
from the farm rather than leading
la migra
here by returning home. “That brother of ours has courage!” Papá and Tío Armando have both said many, many times.
So, even though this country is treating you like a criminal, you are our hero! I speak for all of us, including my little sisters. We want you to know what we have asked for from the American Santa Claus and from the Three Kings: your safe and quick return to our family, either here or in México.
Early this morning, as I was writing this letter, Ofie asked what I was doing.
“Writing to our uncle. I will give the letter to the
patrón's
wife to deliver.”
“What are you writing about?” she kept pestering. You know how nosy Ofie can be!
I wanted to scold her to leave me alone so I could finish the letter before the
patrón's
wife left for the jail. But it being the day before
Christmas, I tried to be patient and explain that I was telling our uncle that what I wanted for Christmas was news of his safe and quick deliverance.
My sister stood by like she was debating something with herself. I knew because she was biting her fingernails (which is what all three of us do when we are nervous, and Papá is always telling us not to). Finally, she said, “Tell Tío that's what I want for Christmas, too. I'm going to pray right now to Santa. I'll ask the Three Kings for my dollhouse and my Barbie and beauty salon and lip balm instead.”
Poor Three Kings, loaded down with all of my sister's gifts! They will definitely need another camel.
Meanwhile, dear Tío, you will get nothing as we are not permitted to send you food or a gift or even a phone card. But thank goodness Santa has a whole team of reindeer to carry all the hugs and kisses we are sending you!
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Each one is
un besito
(x) and
un abrazo
(o),
Mari
31 diciembre 2005
This is the last day of the old year, and as Papá says, good riddance. May the new year bring you safely home! I hope that you can stay in the United States because our family is not the same without you, Tío. How we miss your beautiful guitar playing and songs and your great stories and jokes.
I know you miss your guitar, too. The
patrón's
younger son told us that you asked if you could be allowed to have your Wilmita with you, but it is not permitted. It made me wonder what I would miss the most if I were locked up in a jail. Besides my family, it would be my letter writing (though I think this is permitted) and then very small things like catching snowflakes on my tongue or looking up at the stars on a clear night.
Maybe it just makes you miss your freedom more to hear me mention these things? But sometimes, Tío, like when you sing
“La Golondrina”
and feel transported back to México through the song, something similar happens when I write. Mamá once told me that just writing a letter to someone would make me feel less alone, and she was right! I have written to her, and even to Abuelita, and while I am
writing, I feel they are back. Also, when I write you these letters, it's as if I am talking face to face with you again. And not only that, Tío, but I am able to tell you things I never could in person.
The
patrón's
wife told us that you are in jail with seven other men, and a half- dozen jailers, none of whom speak Spanish. She said that one of the deputies told her everybody feels sorry because you have no one to talk to. Which is why they allowed the
patrón's
wife to bring you that box of cookies my sisters and I made with the grandmother just for you. I'm sorry the parrots came out looking like socks with beaks.
We also met your lawyer, who came over with the
patrón's
wife and our Spanish teacher after their first visit to introduce himself. He doesn't look like a lawyer—don't you agree? Maybe it's his red hair or how he wears jeans and a little earring in his ear like a girl. (I know pirates wear them, too.) But he is very smart and has told me a dozen times he wants to learn Spanish so he can defend the rights of oppressed people from the impoverished Americas. When he talks like that I feel embarrassed that I have a brand- new backpack and a tummy full of parrot cookies and a warm bedroom with stars on the ceiling that I'll tell you about later in this letter.
First, I have very exciting news: we think Mamá called! While we were meeting in the
trailer after that first visit, the
patrón's
younger son came racing over to report that our mother was calling us on their telephone. We all ran out of the trailer like it was in flames, across the yard to the
patrón's
house. The sister was standing in the kitchen, clutching the phone to her chest like she was afraid it might run away from her. Papá grabbed it and cried out,
“¿Mi amor?”
When he kept repeating the same words over and over, my heart sank. I knew what must have happened. The call had been disconnected.
We did not know what to do! Then Sara remembered that you could hit a certain number to call back the caller, but by the time she'd gotten the phone back from Papá, who didn't want to let go, it was too late. The phone on the other end just rang and rang.
After we got back to the trailer, we called Abuelota and Abuelote to see if maybe Mamá had called them. But no, Abuelota said, they had not received any calls. Then every one of us got on quickly to wish them a merry Christmas.
“Feliz Navidad,”
they wished us back. As we were saying goodbye, Abuelota asked, “What about Felipito? Are you not going to put him on?”
Papá made an excuse that you were still at work, as he did not want to worry her. But he is already wondering how we are going to handle your absence when we call again tomorrow to
wish them a happy and healthy and prosperous new year.
The lawyer is trying to see if the jailers can allow you a phone card. He said that prisoners are only permitted to make collect calls on the jail phone, but we explained that Abuelota and Abuelote don't own a phone, and the grocery store where they receive their calls would never accept a collect call. But the jailers have been putting aside many rules as you are a “special case.” Most Mexicans are sent right down to Boston or New York to big deportation centers, but because you have a criminal charge, you have to stay in the friendly neighborhood jail until that's cleared up. Lucky-unlucky, as Papá always says about you.
Before I close with all our best wishes for next year, I hope that you have noticed the beautiful stationery this letter is written on, a Christmas gift from the
patrón's
family. Now that you can receive letters, this one will be in your actual hands, not on the other side of the bulletproof glass, as the
patrón's
younger son described in a card he gave me for Christmas. And guess what else he gave me? Some beautiful little stars that you paste on your ceiling and they glow in the dark. I told the
patrón's
son that they must have been invented by a prisoner who missed seeing the night sky.
I am slipping one of them inside this envelope. She is like the seventh sister of the Pleiades that you can't see with just your eyes the way you can her six sister stars. But the
patrón's
younger son showed her to me with his telescope!
Keep this lucky star until you can look at the real ones in the night sky once you are free.
Muchos besitos y abrazos,
Mari
7 enero 2006
Yesterday was Three Kings Day and we had a special dinner at the grandmother's house.
We had told her how on Three Kings Day, Mexican people make a special cake that has nuts and fruits, which she said sounded just like fruitcake. The only thing is the American fruitcake doesn't have the little baby Jesus inside. In México, whoever gets the baby in their slice has to throw a big party on February 2nd, which is Día de la Candelaria, or Day of the Candles, when Jesus was baptized.
“Why, that's our Groundhog Day,” the grandmother said, shaking her head. She
explained how on that day Americans wait for the groundhog to tell them if winter is over. “If he comes out and doesn't see his shadow, that means an early spring. If he does, six more weeks of winter. It's ridiculous,” the grandmother agreed when she saw the look on our faces. “You know, I think I must be a Mexican at heart. I like your holidays so much more than ours!”
So the grandmother decided to have everyone to supper and celebrate Three Kings the Mexican way. Only thing is they don't sell baby Jesuses to put in your fruitcake here in the grocery stores. But Ofie offered to let the grandmother borrow the teensy baby that came with her dollhouse family. Guess who got the piece with the baby inside it? Me!
But I won't throw a party unless you are free, which I am hoping will be soon so we can celebrate Candlemas all together.
Now that we're back at school, I worry that these two mean boys in my class will find out about you being in prison and make fun of me. It is not that I am not proud of you, Tío, just that I don't know how to defend myself against them. I am writing their full names here so the police know to look out for them, Ronnie Pellegrini and Clayton Lacroix.
My Spanish teacher has promised not to say anything about your capture. She says it's
nobody's business. We think of her as our
madrina
because she has been like our godmother in this country. “And you are
las hijitas
I never had,” she told us the other day. I didn't dare ask her why she hadn't had any kids, but you know Ofie, how bold she can be. Our
madrina
replied that until very recently, she had not found the right man. “So why don't you have one now?” Ofie asked. Can you believe her rudeness? Thank goodness Papá was not around to correct her. Ofie might as well have said, You are getting too old, you know. Our Spanish teacher is about Papá's age, or older.
She just laughed and told Ofie, “You better talk to my gringo about this!” That's what she calls her boyfriend, “my gringo”—to his face! She says he just laughs and calls her right back “my hot tamale”!!!!
Last Monday, the government offices opened again after the holidays, so the
patrón's
wife says your criminal hearing could happen as soon as next week. We know that the deputy is getting permission for you to call Abuelota with the phone card we sent. She still just thinks you have gotten work at another farm and that is why you are calling separately. Papá says to please play along. When you are released, that is soon enough for her to know what has happened.
We have not heard again from Mamá, but
Papá called his old friend in Carolina del Norte, the one who had promised to deliver our new number to the people now living in our old apartment. He said he had been delayed in his promise as he had been down in Florida picking oranges. But as soon as he got back a few weeks ago, he did drop in, and one of the men now living there said that before they disconnected the apartment phone—they all just use cell phones—several people had called for us and he had given them the number we had left taped to the wall. Papá's friend said he gave the new tenants our correct number with an urgent message that if a woman with Mamá's name dropped by, to please tell her to call us immediately.
Papá warns us that we must not let ourselves hope too much, but as you yourself say, Tío, hope is the poor man's bread. So I'll eat as much as I can stand with butter and sugar and jam—butter for your release, sugar for Mamá's return, and jam for the big party I'm throwing once we are all reunited as a family!
With hope and
esperanza,
Mari
14 enero 2006