A So-Called Vacation (3 page)

O
n his first day of summer vacation, Gabriel woke up and saw his brother at the bedroom door. Then he noticed the paper airplane Gus had lobbed at his head.

“So you think it's safe to go back in the water?” asked Gus.

“You mean about Dad and his California con? I'd stay out of his way for a couple of days.”

But that Saturday morning their father was so oddly silent at breakfast that Gus felt guilty coming again. “Look, Dad, I'll really try to get better grades next fall.”

Their father seemed unaffected. “Just remind them to write ‘Gustavo' on the diploma.”

“One step at a time, Dad. Let me get through the fall first.”

They expected a variation of his one-never-knows speech, but he simply repeated his request about the name on the diploma.

Gustavo had been named after their father's father, and while not ashamed of it, he felt more comfortable with his school nickname. Whenever he had to answer to Gustavo, he seemed to stiffen slightly as though forced to slip into a tight, unfamiliar skin.

Since their father always called him Gustavo, the rest of the family did too, at least at home. On the rare occasions when Gabriel let a “Gus” slip out, his father would level a special gaze and let it linger for an unnerving
moment, as if his son had sworn. Then, in that disappointed way of his, he'd look away without a word.

Their sister, though, could not care less about those sorts of social nuances. After all, Paula was Paula in either language. Yet that frank gaze and her indifferent attitude to subtleties could be misleading because she also had her father's cunning and his cagey talent for slipping out of entanglements. Although she was still in middle school, her brothers knew better than to count on her allegiance or to discount her intelligence.

That evening, as she clicked through the channels, she paused at the start of an old “Beverly Hillbillies” episode. “Look, that's us, heading for California! And there's Mom on a rocking chair.”

Gabriel howled and hooted like a hillbilly through the theme song, but Gus couldn't decide whether the comparison was hilarious or just pathetic. “That's us, all right. Only instead of rags to riches we'd be going the opposite way.”

Their father surveyed the living room. “This is no mansion, if that's what you mean. Now, if we had a little extra income …”

“Fine, Dad. Forget I said anything.”

If he heard Gus's reply he did not acknowledge it but merely added with an audible sigh, “Anyway, time's running out.”

“True,
mi vida
, but that's life. Soon the kids will move away and we'll wonder where the time went.”

“I meant time's running out for California.”

Gabriel's reply was as off-the-wall as his mother's yet intentional. “Yep, time's running out for California,” she said. “Only a matter of time before it falls off the map.”

“I meant we should have been on the road by now.”

“Oh, that,” said their mother. “I suppose it is too late.”

A moment later Dad added, loud enough for everyone to hear, “The boss wants to cut back on our hours for the summer. Most of our customers follow the crops out of state.”

She made a stifled sound that was at once a sigh and a yawn. “It happens every summer.”

“What?” he asked with a defensive air. “My saying we should follow them?”

“No. Half the town leaving. But they return come fall, and we survive in the meantime.”

“Why be satisfied with survival? Why, when some migrant family brings back more money in a season than I make in a year as a mechanic?”

“That's just it,” she said. “You're no farmworker.”

“I was once. There's nothing to it.”

“So was I, and it's a life I'd rather not remember or wish on my children. Besides, our kids couldn't tell a weed from a watermelon.”

“They'll learn, the same way we did.”

The boys kept a careful ear on the conversation while Paula kept switching channels. “Hey!” she suddenly said. “Speaking of California! The Disneyland Castle! Is this a cosmic hint or what?”

The instant Gus turned, she pointed at him. “Caught you looking! I swear, Mom, there's a Mickey Mouse button that got stuck somewhere in his brain.”

“He's loved those characters since he was a baby. Even when his friends watched the crazier cartoons, he was more—what do you kids call it?—old school.”

“Okay, Mom, we get the picture. And in case you haven't heard, I'm not a baby anymore.”

“You could have fooled me,” said Paula, “even though you're as long in the tooth as Goofy.”

“And as of yesterday I'm officially a senior. So show some respect.”

“How can you respect a senior obsessed with Disneyland?”

“My friend Hector goes every summer. He says there's something for everyone.”

“All of California's cool,” added Gabriel. “The park is classic, while the rest of the state is cutting edge.”

“Like California girls?” Paula's hint of a smile seemed to ask, “
And how would you know?
”

A moment later the castle, bathed in a backdrop of fireworks, appeared again, long enough for their father to add, “This
is
a coincidence! Just this week I got a call from my cousin Martha.”

“The one in California,
mi rey
?”

“Same one. She said if we ever head out that way we have to visit them.”

“What's that got to do with anything?” asked Gus.

“Her husband works there.”

“Where? In a migrant camp?”

“No, in Disneyland.”

Gus, while intrigued, did his best to dissimulate. “As what? Goofy?”

“No, your father's telling the truth. They live in … Ana … Ana …”

Both brothers blinked and said simultaneously, “Anaheim! That's where Disneyland is!”

“That's what I said.” Their father seemed peeved at having been doubted in the first place.

Gus's euphoria soon evaporated, though. “Anyway, Disneyland and a migrant camp are worlds apart.”

“I'm just saying that if we do go to California, it's nice to know we have family to visit.” Their father sounded almost indifferent, like a salesman with total confidence
in his pitch and his product. “Next door to Disneyland, even. We could save a bundle on expenses, maybe even get free tickets.”

Their mother nodded. “Theme parks are so expensive. People have lost all respect for money.”

“That's okay for kids,” said Paula, “but we're too old. So is Disneyland for that matter.”

“It's not old,” said Gus, even as he tried hard to hide his excitement from his father. “It's classic.”

“I'd rather go to Disney World,” said Paula.

“Then find us family in Florida,” said their father. “Besides, you're never too old.” He glanced at his sons. “Gustavo's wanted to go there since he was old enough to argue. And he gave someone else the same bug.”

“You mean my brother Dopey? Dad, they just want to check out those West Coast babes.”

He did not press the matter but instead stood and stretched. “Well, I'm off to Neverland.” Ignoring Paula altogether, he winked at the boys. “Just sleep on it. Pleasant dreams.”

“Oh, they will,” said Paula, “about surfer chicks.” She studied them in silence, then shook her head with a smile. “The rodents took the bait.”

That night neither brother slept, as they tossed and turned like asphyxiating mice.

The following morning, despite their exhaustion and despite it barely being the start of summer vacation, they were up as early as their father, who sensed something but said nothing.

Finally Gus asked point-blank, “So what part of our earnings could we keep?”

Their father had seen it coming yet acted surprised for their sake. “You mean from fieldwork? Just enough to
cover your school clothes and supplies. The rest is yours. You could get that car you've wanted.”

Gus paced the living room to dissipate his nervousness. “Well, let's do it then.”

Their father continued his coy charade. “Are you sure?”

“Why not? Everyone at school figures we're going anyway. It's just a matter of when.”

Their father did not miss a beat. “How about in two or three days then?” When their mother wondered aloud whether that was enough time, he said, “There's never enough time! Time is money. I already have the names and numbers of several growers. There's some in Watsonville, others close to Fresno, a few more by Monterey.”

“But who else is going,
mi rey
?”

“Who isn't?”

“I mean, name one family. Someone we'll know up there.”

“I could name half the town.”

“Which half is that?” asked Paula. “The one on the wrong side of the tracks?”

He sidestepped the issue by pointing out their neighborhood was already straddling the town's dividing line, and it was slowly drifting downward. Finally he admitted, “Okay, nobody you know, just people I've met at work. And even those families already left us at the starting gate. But I can bring the van up to speed and shut the utilities off in no time.”

“What about your boss?”

“What about him? Believe me, Mr. Woods will thank us. I'm one less mechanic he has to pay this summer to sit around scratching his behind.”

“Speaking of pay,” Paula asked, “how much?”

“It depends.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“You can work piece rate. The faster you pick, the more you make.”

“Dad, you mentioned Monterey,” said Gabriel. “Didn't they have some awesome rock concert there when you were a kid?”

“I wouldn't know. I was too busy picking crops down here.”

“
Mi amor
, you were too busy
picketing
? If the growers find out you were helping farmworkers unionize—”

“I said
picking
.” He swept his gaze to get everyone's attention. “Just don't crack any jokes like that when we're up there.”

Gus wondered aloud, “So how far are these camps from Anaheim?”

“Now everyone wants details!”

“Take it easy, Dad. I just wanted to know which town would be closest.”

“Then look them up on a map. Anyway, nothing's that far in California, what with all those freeways. And speaking of freeways, the sooner we're on one, the better.”

Gabriel, still in disbelief, nudged his brother. “At least we'll fill up on fast food from here to California.”

B
y the end of their first day on the road, Gabriel was about to eat his words, since his father's idea of eating on the run was literal.

“Dad, how about pulling over for a sandwich or something?”

For a moment his father said nothing, until Gabriel assumed the matter had been forgotten. Suddenly his father indicated a distant supermarket. “There!”

“They have sandwiches there?” Gabriel asked.

“Better than that,” said his father, as he eased toward the exit lane. “They have stuff to make sandwiches.”

“
Here
? In the van?”

“Of course. This way we know some gross teenager didn't put something in them.”

Paula smiled. “Then make sure Gus and Gabriel don't prepare ours.”

“Fine. You can help your brothers. They'll buy the stuff.” He pulled into the parking lot, gave Gus some bills, then invited the girls to get out and stretch their legs. “Remember,” he told his sons, “time is money. Just grab a loaf of bread, bologna, and cheese. No junk food or snacks.”

“Bologna's not exactly health food,” said Gus. “That's why they call it bologna.”

By then their father was too busy to answer, pacing the parking lot with exaggerated strides and twisting his spine so forcefully that an elderly Anglo couple in a nearby car stared at him and mumbled to each other.