Tomás gets through the day if this photo of Sylvia looking very much alive is the first thing he sees when he wakes up. A rosary made of soft pink stones lies coiled next to the photo, arranged carefully so that the crucifix is faceup and touching the frame.
Taped to the wall at the end of the bunkhouse there’s a poster of Cesar Chavez. I recognize him immediately because I studied him in middle school. He was a Mexican American who founded the UFW, the United Farm Workers union, and fought tirelessly for farmworkers’ rights. You can’t live anywhere near the Mission in San Francisco without knowing who he was because they even named a street after him. He’s a hero to all farmworkers, but a lot of people, including my dad, say that all the good that he did has been undone by conservative anti-immigration government. I suddenly feel like I’m intruding so I leave quickly.
Early (even by farm standards) on Friday morning, I say good-bye to my dad and assure him that everything will be taken care of while he’s away. (He’s thoughtfully composed an endless list of things that need attending to.) I tell him that I’ll miss him a lot and resist the urge to shove him into the idling truck, where Steve waits in the driver’s seat to take him to the airport. I even stand in the driveway and make a show of it, waving as Steve pulls onto the road and the old pickup disappears. I’m fifteen years old (nearly sixteen) and I’m almost completely unsupervised until Monday night! Rufus returns from escorting the truck to the road and we walk back to the house together, up the stairs and back to bed for another hour. When Steve gets back I have to do restaurant deliveries with him but Miguel and Tomás have them all packed and ready to go, so I can sleep until five minutes before Steve is due back. Thirty minutes into my hour, the phone rings. I jerk awake and dig for the phone under a pile of dirty clothes.
“Hello?” I try to sound alert in case it’s my dad.
“It’s me.”
“Forest?”
“Yes, how many me’s do you know?”
“What are you doing? It’s early.”
“I know. I couldn’t sleep and then I remembered it was okay to call. It is okay that I called, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I pull the phone under the quilt with me.
“What are you doing?”
“Um, I’m mending a fence on the back forty.”
“You are?”
“No. We don’t even have a back forty, and if we did, I doubt the phone cord would reach. Actually, I’m in bed.”
“Oh God! I woke a farm girl? Somehow I wasn’t picturing that.”
“It’s okay. I need to get up anyway. The ungrateful chickens need tending to.”
“Wait. Stay where you are. I want to picture you there for a minute.”
“Okay.” I close my eyes and listen to him breathe. I hope he’s not picturing me in a rumpled, oversize T-shirt and saggy boxers, which is what I’m wearing.
“What time can I come over?”
“How about six?”
“I’ll see you then.”
By five o’clock Steve and I are back from doing deliveries. I brought my stack of fresh CDs along and we had a pretty good time getting into all my new tunes. Music is a great motivator and we knocked out the deliveries in record time. By the time Forest is due to arrive I even have the house looking halfway decent, which is better than it’s looked in months. Laundry is in the laundry room, books on the bookshelf, and papers in a neat pile. The compost bowl next to the sink has been emptied and all lingering farm odors have been banished with Telegraph Avenue incense.
The first thing Forest says when he gets out of his beast in the driveway is “Man, I love that farm smell.”
Rufus is annoyed at having his nap interrupted but he gives Forest a proper greeting, sniffing his leg and wagging his tail. Forest pats his head carefully, like someone who’s not around animals much.
“He probably smells L.A. It’s really hard to get rid of that smell.”
“He loves city people. He took to me
Taped to the wall at the end of the bunkhouse there’s a poster of Cesar Chavez. I recognize him immediately because I studied him in middle school. He was a Mexican American who founded the UFW, the United Farm Workers union, and fought tirelessly for farmworkers’ rights. You can’t live anywhere near the Mission in San Francisco without knowing who he was because they even named a street after him. He’s a hero to all farmworkers, but a lot of people, including my dad, say that all the good that he did has been undone by conservative anti-immigration government. I suddenly feel like I’m intruding so I leave quickly.
Early (even by farm standards) on Friday morning, I say good-bye to my dad and assure him that everything will be taken care of while he’s away. (He’s thoughtfully composed an endless list of things that need attending to.) I tell him that I’ll miss him a lot and resist the urge to shove him into the idling truck, where Steve waits in the driver’s seat to take him to the airport. I even stand in the driveway and make a show of it, waving as Steve pulls onto the road and the old pickup disappears. I’m fifteen years old (nearly sixteen) and I’m almost completely unsupervised until Monday night! Rufus returns from escorting the truck to the road and we walk back to the house together, up the stairs and back to bed for another hour. When Steve gets back I have to do restaurant deliveries with him but Miguel and Tomás have them all packed and ready to go, so I can sleep until five minutes before Steve is due back. Thirty minutes into my hour, the phone rings. I jerk awake and dig for the phone under a pile of dirty clothes.
“Hello?” I try to sound alert in case it’s my dad.
“It’s me.”
“Forest?”
“Yes, how many me’s do you know?”
“What are you doing? It’s early.”
“I know. I couldn’t sleep and then I remembered it was okay to call. It is okay that I called, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I pull the phone under the quilt with me.
“What are you doing?”
“Um, I’m mending a fence on the back forty.”
“You are?”
“No. We don’t even have a back forty, and if we did, I doubt the phone cord would reach. Actually, I’m in bed.”
“Oh God! I woke a farm girl? Somehow I wasn’t picturing that.”
“It’s okay. I need to get up anyway. The ungrateful chickens need tending to.”
“Wait. Stay where you are. I want to picture you there for a minute.”
“Okay.” I close my eyes and listen to him breathe. I hope he’s not picturing me in a rumpled, oversize T-shirt and saggy boxers, which is what I’m wearing.
“What time can I come over?”
“How about six?”
“I’ll see you then.”
By five o’clock Steve and I are back from doing deliveries. I brought my stack of fresh CDs along and we had a pretty good time getting into all my new tunes. Music is a great motivator and we knocked out the deliveries in record time. By the time Forest is due to arrive I even have the house looking halfway decent, which is better than it’s looked in months. Laundry is in the laundry room, books on the bookshelf, and papers in a neat pile. The compost bowl next to the sink has been emptied and all lingering farm odors have been banished with Telegraph Avenue incense.
The first thing Forest says when he gets out of his beast in the driveway is “Man, I love that farm smell.”
Rufus is annoyed at having his nap interrupted but he gives Forest a proper greeting, sniffing his leg and wagging his tail. Forest pats his head carefully, like someone who’s not around animals much.
“He probably smells L.A. It’s really hard to get rid of that smell.”
“He loves city people. He took to me
Similar Books
