A So-Called Vacation (5 page)

With a kerosene lamp, the crew leader pointed out the partition that separated the interior into two rooms with a hollow-core door joining them. He studied their faces for a reaction, adding that the choice was limited to the shacks everyone else had rejected.

“It's the best I can do, since you're not only newcomers but latecomers. On the plus side, it's a big place. Sometimes I put two small families here. That's what the dividing wall is for.” He tapped on a row of scuffed pegboards that improvised as a drywall and that created points of lamplight into the other side. “I don't expect anyone else this late, though, so you've got the place to yourselves.” He shrugged, as if admitting that the accommodations were not much but that it was also the best he could do.

Their father, trying to reassure everyone including the crew boss with a lopsided smile, covered the living space in a few steps. “Well, as long as the crops aren't slim pickings too.”

“No problem there,” he said, glad to finally offer good news. “There's plenty of that.”

“This will do,” said their father, and the family seemed too exhausted to argue otherwise. “It's just like when I used to pick crops. I mean, I still do.” He corrected himself again. “We all do.”

“Then you'll feel right at home.” The comment barely covered Gus's low groan. “I'll just leave this lamp here.”

“No need to,” said Gus, collapsing on a cot. “Just tell us where the light switch is.”

Don Rafa, assuming the remark was a joke, played along and twisted a knob that dimmed the lamp. “It's right here, see? I'll bring another lamp tomorrow.” He started to leave. “Oh, your neighbor on that side is Señor Serenata.”

“Excuse me,” asked Paula, “did you say Señor Serenata or Sinatra?”

He chuckled, as if sharing a private joke. “I guess you could call him that too. You'll find out what I mean. Your other neighbor is Don Pilo, a widower with three teenaged boys. Hardest working kids around. Early to bed and early to rise, and no nonsense in between. In fact, they're from your neck of the woods.”

“Speaking of back home,” said their father, “where's the López family staying?”

The crew leader tried to scratch his head, then remembered he was wearing his hat.

Their father added, “Fidel López … He's the one who told me about this place.”

There was silence on both sides until Paula started a softer coyote yelp that their mother silenced with a quick nudge.

“The name rings a bell. I think he was here last year.” He took advantage of Gabriel's audible yawn and added,
“Anyway, I'll let you rest. Tomorrow's a long day, and it's almost here. Fortunately for you it'll be Friday.”

“Actually,” said their father, “I'm sort of sorry the week's almost over.”

Don Rafa managed an unconvincing smile. “I'm sure the rest of the camp isn't.”

He was almost out the door when he returned and began sweeping the lamplight along the perimeter of the floorboards, all the while mumbling to himself.

Gus instinctively raised himself from the cot. “What are you looking for? What's in here?”

“Nothing.” His mumbling trailed off again. “But just to be on the safe side … sometimes snakes and varmints make themselves at home.”

Gabriel and Gus glanced at each other, knowing that if there were not enough cots for each member of the family, they would be the ones sleeping on the floor.

No sooner did the crew leader leave than Gus, despite being dead tired from the trip, suddenly came to life. “This is hardcore, Dad! It bites the big one!”

“Now, now,” said their mother. “Just because it's a migrant camp is no excuse for obscenities.”

“Obscenities?
This
—!” Gus swept his arm in an inclusive arc overhead, and his fingertips grazed the ceiling. “
This
is an obscenity! And I don't just mean this shack. I mean the whole camp. How can anyone live like this?”

“Compared to when I was a kid,” said their father, “this is a suite.” The rest of the family stared back in disbelief. “Well, a cabin at least.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel said, “like the original Uncle Tom's cabin. Except this one's a lot older.”

His father downplayed their pessimism. “Why, this'll be like camping in Big Bend. We could even sleep out under the stars one night.”

“Big Bend,” said Gus. “Talk about another trip that went nowhere. Besides, we can probably see the stars through the roof.”

Their mother sought the bright side even though the setting was not helping any. “I'll bet this camp has its history.”

“I'll say,” said Gabriel. “They probably kept Japanese-Americans here during the war.”

“Oh, no, this is much better,” said his father, either oblivious to the sarcasm or pretending to be. “Those families had no choice.”

Even as Gus claimed a corner, he muttered to his brother, “And what choice do we have? Walk back two thousand miles?”

“I still think this was an internment camp,” said Gabriel. “It has a creepy feeling.”

“Fine,” said his father. “So you'll be sleeping in a historical place.”

Paula added, “Like those plaques that say, George Washington slept here.”

“Exactly.” Gus imitated the upbeat tone his father used whenever he found it convenient. “Just like living in a battlefield camp.”

That night the brothers found out why their neighbor to the north was known as Señor Serenata. They had pushed their cots next to an open window and were already asleep when a muffled but audible quarrel broke out in the adjoining shack.

“What the—?”

“It's the neighbor and his wife, Gabi. Just get some z's.”

The next thing Gabriel woke up to was a serenade coming from the same direction. For a moment he seemed to dwell in an inverted reality where he thought he was dreaming, but the dream from an instant ago had actually
been the real thing. Sitting up and stirring the sleep from his eyes, he could make out Señor Serenata in silhouette, braced against the hood of his car.

“Jesus,” Gus complained in a hoarse whisper. “Are they still going at it?”

“No, now they're making up. Hear the
mariachi
music?”

Several times the man stopped his slurred serenade and turned around to whisper encouragement. “That's the spirit,
muchachos
! Make those violins weep! Help me win her back.”

By now just enough daylight smudged the horizon so that Gabriel could make out a boom box propped on the car roof. He smothered his face with a lumpy pillow to erase the surreal scene and sleep a bit longer.

All at once—it might have been longer but it seemed like a moment ago—the commotion was in his face as his father, crowing like a crazed rooster, pulled away the covers. “It's time to hit the field, kids!”

“It's still dark outside,” said Gus.

“Listen to this
señorita
. No wonder they brought a serenade to your window last night.” He tapped both their skulls. “Come on. There's a whole new world out there just waiting to be discovered.”

G
abriel sat on his cot for a long moment and explored his surroundings, wondering whether he was awake. Although he recognized his mother and sister, the wide sunbonnets they were wearing gave their appearance an alien, unfamiliar air.

“Where am I?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

His father came up close and pinched his cheek playfully. “You're in Disneyland. Now let's go or you'll be late for the rides. Over here you have to hit the ground running.”

Outside, the camp's activity sounded dissonant yet deliberate, as households passed out work clothes and fixed breakfast, the same food that would go into the lunchpails being prepared for the fields.

“Mom,” Paula said as she listened closely to the bustle, “what do we do about our meals?”

“We could ask our neighbors,” said Gus. When his mother frowned he added, “Just this once.”

“I'd rather not start out on the wrong foot.”

“But all we have are leftover sandwiches.”

“Then it's one more day of cold cuts. Better that than beg the camp for tacos.”

Paula agreed, “This way we'll finish the left-overs.”

Gus grumbled, “Looks like I'll be losing weight this summer.”

“Good,” said their father. “I didn't know how to say this, but you and your brother were starting to get a little doughy around the ass.”

Paula laughed, “At least Gabi doesn't pretend to be a school athlete.”

“Who's pretending?” said Gus. “You think all those trophies on my nightstand are make-believe?”

Paula looked at the spartan surroundings. “I don't see any trophies here. I don't even see a nightstand. So I guess I'm not the one who's pretending.”

“Anyway, I need to put on bulk for the fall. Otherwise I might not make the team.”

Paula approached him to make sure their father could not hear. “Well, you're not going to put it on here, Atlas. Dad's going to run your ass ragged.”

By then Gabriel had already stepped out onto the tiny porch. Despite the bracing morning breeze, he felt himself slipping back into a dream world. The sensation had as much to do with a lack of sleep as the surreal surroundings of camp life. He had tried to brace himself the night before. But it was one thing to enter another environment and quite another to wake up and find yourself in the middle of it. The sobering realization—all of his mornings for the remainder of summer would begin like this—did not help.

He sat on the topmost step of the house, which itself stood on top of a perimeter of concrete blocks, when Gus whispered through the screen door, “So how's it look? As scary as I dreamed it last night?”

“Like Dad said, it's another world.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I didn't mean bad. I meant different.”

Gus came out to the porch with the same mask of determination he put on before a game. Yet the longer he
surveyed the place, the more his demeanor grew less steely. “It's not that different,” he finally concluded. “See that girl over there? She looks just like one of my classmates. And look at that old guy. He's the spitting image of our mailman.”

He carefully observed a few more workers, then asked, “So how do I look?”

“What do you mean, Gus?”

“You think I'm dressed all right?”

Gabriel, still confused, struggled to make sense of the question. “It's not like you have to wear a uniform for farmwork. There's no dress code here. In case you hadn't noticed, we're not working in some office.”

“I don't want to look like some hayseed. But I didn't want to look out of place either.” He flexed his strong arms, showing the half-rolled sleeves of a bright blue shirt that their mother had carefully ironed back in Texas.

“I don't look like a dandy, do I?”

“Not at all. You look like your everyday … pimp.”

His brother, already insecure, took the kidding seriously, so Gabriel had to undo the remark with an energetic thumbs-up. “You look fine, Gus. You just need to rough up your city-boy edges a bit.” He inspected his own arms and hands. “For that matter so do I.”

“That'll come soon enough.”

Gabriel nodded and at the same time tried to stifle a yawn. Then he jumped off the porch to check out the camp in the light of day. He counted close to fifteen shacks, all brimming with youngsters. Several places sported late-model pickups out front that made the shacks appear even shabbier.

As he strolled down the dirt road that divided the camp, he could sense the uncertainty of the other workers as they watched with inquiring eyes. Several times he
nodded at them, and all but once they nodded back or raised a hand in greeting. Gradually he realized that Gus was right. The surroundings might seem foreign, but the people were not that different from those he already knew back home. He was especially surprised at the number of migrants speaking English, not just youngsters but adults as well. He had always assumed that agricultural labor was the sole province of Mexicans, especially undocumented workers, and that illegal workers in other jobs, like construction, had ended up there because the jobs in the fields were already taken by other Mexicans. Now, seeing so many native-born migrants like himself, it bothered him that they ended up with these jobs while undocumented workers often had other, betterpaying jobs.

When he returned, Gus was waiting with a sarcastic look, as if expecting a scouting report. When his younger brother said nothing, he finally asked outright, “So how's it look? Like Paula's Disney World?”

“More like the Third World.”

He had meant the remark as a joke, just as Gus had, but his brother took it to heart.

“I only hope the Border Patrol doesn't show up asking us for papers. That would be the ultimate insult.”