Return to Sender (4 page)

“I think it might be a good idea for you to go next door and introduce yourself,” Mom greets Tyler at breakfast. It is his first morning back at the farm after being away. Tyler has missed the farm terribly, but one thing he has not missed is his mother's good ideas.

“Mom,” Tyler groans, “I already met them!” Early this morning before breakfast, Tyler slipped into the barn to check on Alaska, his favorite show cow. The three new Mexican workers were there hard at work, but they looked up, curious, when Tyler entered. He waved hello and then hung out, even helping one of them, who can't
be any older than Ben, put the milker on the skittish Oklahoma.

“I meant say hi to the girls,” his mom explains.

Tyler puts his head in his hands so he doesn't have to see anything but his bowl of cereal. Too late he remembers his mother has told him this is rude. Horses have blinkers, not humans. But sometimes, Tyler hates to tell her, sometimes he would just as soon see less, not more, of the world around him, a world full of accidents, bad luck, and Mom's good ideas.

But maybe because he just got home yesterday, his mom doesn't say anything about his blinkers. Instead she starts in on the sappy stuff that always makes Tyler cave in to her good ideas. “They don't seem to have a mother and they're cooped up in that trailer. It'd be really nice if you maybe just popped in and made them feel welcome.”

How's he supposed to make three girls feel welcome? He should have borrowed a clown costume from Aunt Roxie and Uncle Tony! Furthermore, Tyler hopes his mom is not suggesting that he has to be friends with three girls just because their father works on the farm.

“I have a really good idea,” Tyler says, sitting up. “Why don't I go help the guys with the milking? One of them didn't even know how to adjust the milker when it got loose on Montana.”

Mom folds her arms and looks at him with that math-problem look. “First, Tyler Maxwell Paquette, remember these guys come from farms back in Mexico where there
aren't any machines, so it's going to take them a few weeks to learn how to work all the equipment. Second—”

“That's why I should go help.”

Mom is shaking her head. “Second, I'm sure they can handle the milking. They've caught on quickly. And third …” Mom always numbers her reasons when she wants to make a point, but often, like now, she forgets the point she was trying to make. “The oldest one is eleven and she's going to be in your grade at school.”

“But I thought you said they were a secret!” Tyler blurts out. He has kept mulling over why he's not supposed to talk about the new workers being Mexican.

His mother looks unsure. He has obviously caught her in a contradiction, which usually means he's going to get scolded and sent up to his room.

Instead, his mom tries to explain. “It's not really a secret. Everyone around here is hiring Mexicans, so we're all in this together.”

Tyler waits because there's got to be more, but there isn't more. “So, if they're Mexicans, how can they go to school?” After all, you can't vote if you're not American. Tyler's not real sure of the rules. He wishes now he'd spent more time paying attention when Ms. Swenson went over the Constitution last year.

“Of course they can go to school. In fact, I already checked with Mrs. Stevens and she said any child who wants to learn is welcome at Bridgeport.

“This is why this is a great country,” Mom goes on. She
seems relieved to drop the subject of keeping the Mexicans secret. “We believe in public education. And many of us who still remember what it really means to be an American welcome outsiders, especially those who have come here to help us.”

Good thing his mom added that last part about coming to help us. Tyler hates to admit it, but after September 11, he's a little scared of strangers from other countries who might be plotting to destroy the United States of America. It'd be worse than losing the farm, losing his whole country! Where would he and his family go?

“So, Tiger, would you please just say hello? Maybe take them some of your old board games and stuff.”

Great, now Tyler has to be not only a friendly American but Santa Claus.

“Sara mentioned that they had some letters to mail, so if you could pick them up, okay?”

And also, the postman …

“Those brownies by the door—”

“M-o-o-o-m!” Tyler draws out her name.

“Don't worry, I kept some for us.” She smiles, as if that's what Tyler's reluctance is all about. “Remember, if it hadn't been for them coming …”

“Okay, okay,” Tyler groans. Next thing he knows, his mom will start in on how they are angels sent by God. Tyler might as well face it: he's going to have to be grateful for a long time for being able to stay on their farm.

“Knock, knock,” Tyler says instead of knocking on the door of the trailer. They know he's here. He saw three faces peering through the window.

It seems like forever before the door finally opens. Standing before him is a lineup of three girls, the tallest one directly in front of him. They look a lot alike, very tanned with black hair and big dark eyes, each one slightly smaller, like those dolls Aunt Roxie once gave Sara: one inside the other inside another.

“Hi,” Tyler says. He knows for a fact that his mom is watching out the kitchen window. He has got to put in at least five minutes of welcome or he is going to be sent back for more. But these three girls aren't making it easy. They look scared of him. In fact, the oldest is staring at him like he's some creature from outer space. “I live here,” he tries again. “My name's Tyler.” When she doesn't offer her name, Tyler wonders if any of them speak English.
“¡Hola!”
he says, remembering the greeting from Spanish class.
“Mi nombre es Tyler.”

“You speak Spanish?” the girl before him asks in pretty good English.

“I speak Spanish, too,” the littlest one chimes in. “In Spanish my name is Lubyneida—”

“María Lubyneida,” the second one corrects. “I'm María Ofelia. But everyone calls me Ofie. And everyone calls her Luby,” she adds, pointing to the littlest one. “She's María Dolores, Mari for short.” She points to the tallest, though not by much.

“So you're all María Something,” Tyler observes smartly.

In Spanish class Ms. Ramírez said María was a real popu-lar name in Spanish. But this is ridiculous. Even the cows without names get their very own ear- tag numbers. Tyler's just glad his mom didn't insist on naming him Abelard like his dad. He's got too many hand-me-downs, being the youngest, to have to put up with a worn- out name also. “So what's Mexico like?” He can't think of anything else to ask.

“I've never been,” the middle one says.

“Me either,” says the littlest. “Only Mari.”

So much for them being Mexicans.

“We came from North Carolina,” the little one explains.

“We've got a cow named Carolina,” Tyler offers, to make up for the fact that he has never been anywhere except Boston. “We actually name all our cows after states. Well, we used to.” Back when the herd was a lot smaller, many cows had names. But now with two hundred head, it's only the show cows that have names. The rest just have numbers on ear tags.

“How come you do that?” the middle one asks.

“Give ‘em ear tags?”

“How come you name the cows after the United States?” the middle one persists. She seems to be the big mouth in the family.

Tyler shrugs. Many of the things that his family does were decided long before he had a vote. “That's the way it's always been done,” he's always told if he questions why. But in this case, anyway, Tyler thinks it's kind of cool naming cows after states. It makes up for the fact that their farm
doesn't have a name. Everyone just calls it the Paquette farm, but since there are a lot of Paquettes, that can get con-fusing. They've tried out a bunch of names—Happy Valley Farm, Sunset View Farm, Windy Acres Farm—but by the time Dad has gotten around to having a sign made, every-one's grown tired of the agreed- upon name. Only one of Tyler's choices ever made it to a final round: Milky Way Farm, which Sara vetoed on account of it sounded too much like a candy bar, one she didn't especially like.

Out of the blue, the oldest, who seems to be the shyest, asks Tyler, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Maybe it's a custom for Mexicans to ask after your health? Ms. Ramírez has said that they are very courteous.

“So do you have two Carolina cows, one for North and one for South?” the middle one asks. She is headed for the honor roll at Bridgeport, Tyler can see that. But just like that, she's giggling. That's a joke?

“In Spanish, you have to say Carolina del Norte.” The little one is explaining partly to Tyler, partly to a scruffy stuffed puppy she holds under one arm. It's like she just figured out there are two languages and she has to match them up.

“We were born there,” Ofie, the middle one, adds, pointing to her little sister and herself. “Mari was born—” Before she can finish, the oldest one has clapped a hand over Ofie's mouth. End of that conversation.

“I wasn't going to say anything!” Ofie says, pulling her older sister's hand away.

“Yes, you were,” little Luby pipes up. And before anyone
can stop her she says, “You were going to say that Mari was born in Mexico.”

“Thanks a lot!” Mari cries. She turns on her heels and runs down the hall of the trailer. A moment later a door bangs.

“What happened?” Luby asks, her bottom lip quivering.

Ofie shrugs. “She's just sensitive. Want to come in?” she asks Tyler, stepping to one side of the door.

Tyler isn't sure he wants to come into a house where three girls are having a fight over something silly like where they were born. “I better go,” he says. “Gotta help milk the cows.”

“Which one?” little Luby wants to know.

It takes Tyler a moment to figure out what the little girl is asking. “Boston,” he says. It's the first name that pops into his head, probably because he's just been there. It's only on his way back to his house with Life and Candy Land still under his arm that he remembers that Boston isn't really a state. But then, he can't recall ever naming a cow Massa-chusetts.