rusted-out cars and broken crockery, her momma and poppa and all the kids moving from farm to farm California living in shanties no toilet or bath, crates for furniture, one stained mattress on the floor for all of them. All of them had to work even the kids to earn enough to carry them through off-seasons. But what she remembered most was the light at dawn as they set off for the fields, dew still on the leaves, holding her momma’s hand, or carried on her poppa’s shoulders, the family together.
Brother, sister, poppa dead of TB, another brother dead from violence, other sisters went to Los Angeles to find jobs as maids, what a joke. How could they be maids, they had never had houses, washing machines dishwashers vacuum cleaners coffeemakers Cuisinarts. Had to learn everything, everything terrifyingly new, threatening. But Momma did.
My momma with her momma, my abuelita , the grandma I never knew, two women alone in a hostile world, who had always lived so closely with their kin. Took two years to work their way across the country, often hungry. Picked their way to Vermont and when the last apple was packed, Grandma got them on a bus to Boston, the postcard clutched in her hand with an address where Momma’s aunt, Abuela’s sister Imelda, had gone with her man years before. But Imelda was gone from the address on the card saved over all the years, a card neither of them could read and Imelda couldn’t have written. Who wrote it? Who read it to them?
Ronnie’s throat felt tight and she got up and walked the length of the room.
Forget all that, all over, done with, I’m not doomed like them, I have a chance. Her gaze fell on the disconnected computer, the piles of books and papers on the desk.
Lazy wetback.
Well, how could I do anything, she silently shrieked at herself, when she was dying, when she was in such pain, when I tried to be with her every moment! I finished the coursework, didn’t I? In a tough discipline! I did the research!
She fell into the chair at the desk and gazed out at the brown ruined kitchen garden. It hadn’t been tended since Momma fell ill, but a few straggly lettuces still struggled for life, a couple of tomato plants had re-seeded themselves and sent up leggy shoots.
Every spring, the gardener turned the ground over for Momma and she planted the hot peppers and herbs she couldn’t buy here and pole beans and tomatoes and squash and eggplant. Up every morning early out there with her small golden hands working in the soil, pressing and pulling, treating the plants as if they were her children.
She was happy here. Only she missed her momma. Grave in Boston, too far away for her to tend. Together now.
What happened? She only got sick last spring. Maybe she was sick before that, couldn’t attend to things. Because everything has gone to pieces, all the gardens are a wreck, He still had the groundsmen working, how come? As if when she stopped overseeing things, they fell apart. As if she was the soul of a house she could never own. All His money and power couldn’t keep things together.
Maybe it takes love to keep things together.
Hah! Where do you find that?
Where could Momma find it, twenty-six years old, her own mother dead, alone alone alone in the world, friendless world for her. Getting this job a fluke for her.
She never tired of talking about the man in a uniform who came for her in a limousine! Her shabby coat, belongings in shopping bags. Servant shortage or she never would have got such a job. The driver told her to sit in the back and she held on to the handgrip in terror, sure someone would come and rip her out of this car in which she did not belong. They drove to this town, all white the trees iced the snow still over the fields not like Boston where it had turned to stained slush. And the houses so big, so many trees, she hadn’t imagined houses like this, farmhouses were sometimes big but not like these houses.
And then her first sight of the house! And then
Brother, sister, poppa dead of TB, another brother dead from violence, other sisters went to Los Angeles to find jobs as maids, what a joke. How could they be maids, they had never had houses, washing machines dishwashers vacuum cleaners coffeemakers Cuisinarts. Had to learn everything, everything terrifyingly new, threatening. But Momma did.
My momma with her momma, my abuelita , the grandma I never knew, two women alone in a hostile world, who had always lived so closely with their kin. Took two years to work their way across the country, often hungry. Picked their way to Vermont and when the last apple was packed, Grandma got them on a bus to Boston, the postcard clutched in her hand with an address where Momma’s aunt, Abuela’s sister Imelda, had gone with her man years before. But Imelda was gone from the address on the card saved over all the years, a card neither of them could read and Imelda couldn’t have written. Who wrote it? Who read it to them?
Ronnie’s throat felt tight and she got up and walked the length of the room.
Forget all that, all over, done with, I’m not doomed like them, I have a chance. Her gaze fell on the disconnected computer, the piles of books and papers on the desk.
Lazy wetback.
Well, how could I do anything, she silently shrieked at herself, when she was dying, when she was in such pain, when I tried to be with her every moment! I finished the coursework, didn’t I? In a tough discipline! I did the research!
She fell into the chair at the desk and gazed out at the brown ruined kitchen garden. It hadn’t been tended since Momma fell ill, but a few straggly lettuces still struggled for life, a couple of tomato plants had re-seeded themselves and sent up leggy shoots.
Every spring, the gardener turned the ground over for Momma and she planted the hot peppers and herbs she couldn’t buy here and pole beans and tomatoes and squash and eggplant. Up every morning early out there with her small golden hands working in the soil, pressing and pulling, treating the plants as if they were her children.
She was happy here. Only she missed her momma. Grave in Boston, too far away for her to tend. Together now.
What happened? She only got sick last spring. Maybe she was sick before that, couldn’t attend to things. Because everything has gone to pieces, all the gardens are a wreck, He still had the groundsmen working, how come? As if when she stopped overseeing things, they fell apart. As if she was the soul of a house she could never own. All His money and power couldn’t keep things together.
Maybe it takes love to keep things together.
Hah! Where do you find that?
Where could Momma find it, twenty-six years old, her own mother dead, alone alone alone in the world, friendless world for her. Getting this job a fluke for her.
She never tired of talking about the man in a uniform who came for her in a limousine! Her shabby coat, belongings in shopping bags. Servant shortage or she never would have got such a job. The driver told her to sit in the back and she held on to the handgrip in terror, sure someone would come and rip her out of this car in which she did not belong. They drove to this town, all white the trees iced the snow still over the fields not like Boston where it had turned to stained slush. And the houses so big, so many trees, she hadn’t imagined houses like this, farmhouses were sometimes big but not like these houses.
And then her first sight of the house! And then
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