A So-Called Vacation (6 page)

“I don't think the Border Patrol works this far North. Besides, I'm pretty sure the government's worked out a deal with the growers—”

“Come to think of it,” Gus interrupted, “a raid might not be that bad. It might break up the camp. Then we could go to Anaheim and back home.”

Before Gabriel could respond, Gus began scanning for stations on a small portable stereo. “We can listen to this in the fields. This way we'll keep in touch with civilization.”

He fiddled with the tuner far and wide, but the only voices that came through with any clarity belonged to a few country singers and evangelists.

“I thought you said we'd be in touch with civilization,” said Gabriel.

Gus was attempting another pass at the stations when Señor Serenata's oldest son stepped outside and greeted them with a nonchalant nod. He pried open a pack of fat batteries and began feeding them into a hefty boom box, and suddenly their own stereo sounded annoying and tinny.

“Say, Gus, isn't that what his dad was playing last night?”

Gus rolled his eyes and muttered back, “Great. Now we have to put up with
mariachis
day and night.”

No sooner did he say this than the young man ejected the CD inside, inserted another one, and cranked up some hard rock.

“I guess I misjudged this guy.” Gus ambled over to introduce himself and soon called out, “Gabi! This is Victor!

Victor gave Gabriel a lethargic acknowledgment that bordered on disdain, as if he were waving him away. Gabriel returned the greeting with a minimal gesture of his own and turned his attention toward his opposite neighbors. He quickly noticed that only grownups greeted the boys, who they called the Borrado brothers. When he got a closer look, he realized their nickname came from their gray eyes. One of his cousins had similar eyes, except that his were framed by a dark face that reminded Gabriel of a panther peering out from a dark cave.

In the case of the Borrados, though, there was no contrast in their complexion to accentuate the color of their eyes. In fact, the nearer the boys got, the more striking
their eyes seemed, as if their pale color—all color, in fact—was bleeding away with each added step.

Their father appeared so fair-skinned, rested, and immaculate that for an instant, Gabriel even wondered whether he might be the grower. Don Pilo wore a crisp linen vest over a Sunday shirt that set him apart from the rest of the crew, while his smartly pressed cowboy hat lacked any trace of sweat stains.

When Gus returned, Gabriel immediately directed his attention to Don Pilo, adding in a low voice, “Now
there's
a dandy.”

Gus could only agree. “How does he manage to look so spiffy? Didn't the crew boss say the guy's a widower?”

“I guess not having a wife means no fights. So he probably has lots of time on his hands. Unlike …”

Gabriel glanced once more in the direction of their opposite neighbors, who had already given them a sample of their domestic squabbles.

Gus was still observing Don Pilo, as engrossed as his brother had been. “The crew boss also said that by sundown his sons are roosting like chickens. Maybe that's also why he has time to spruce up.”

No sooner had he said this than the three boys rushed into their shack then out again, all the while loading hats, lunchboxes and other field gear in the trunk of their car. Gabriel admitted that the collective nickname suited the trio. Besides the washed-out color of their eyes, the name suggested a gray, generic sameness.

At that moment two attractive young women passed by and shouted simultaneously, “Good morning!”

Gabriel turned to them with a self-conscious smile, then realized the greeting was not meant for him or Gus. Indeed, although the women stood only a few yards away, they barely acknowledged them with a quick, suspicious
glance reserved for strangers. Instead they began gazing at the Borrados. They had even removed their hats and set down their lunch containers, as though paying their respects. As they walked away, Gabriel heard the slight one say, “I think the oldest one likes me.”

Gabriel turned to his brother. “What do they see in those weasels? That they're white and have gray eyes? They still look weird.”

“I know. But that's the point. Look at them.”

Gabriel glanced at them.

“Look at them. Look at how scrawny they are. I'll bet anything those guys are gay,” added Gus.

“So if they're gay why were those girls waving at them?”

“Jesus, Gabi, haven't you figured out women yet? Girls are drawn to gay guys. They're nonthreatening. They know they won't be all over them. What's more, guys like that actually enjoy listening to all the bull about makeup and shopping at the mall.”

Gabriel looked at the boys again. “I don't know, Gus. They don't look that frail to me. They look scrappy.”

“Well, you're right about that. Victor said each one picks more strawberries than any adult. That's why grownups admire them. They're the ideal offspring. But that's also why the other kids hate their guts.”

That was certainly the case with Gabriel who, having barely seen them a moment ago, could already conclude, “There's something about those guys I don't like.”

It did not help when at that instant the oldest Borrado returned his stare, regarding Gabriel as though he had just stumbled onto fresh meat. Then, just as quickly, he looked away and began chattering with his brothers.

The distant contact came and went in a flash, but it left Gabriel with a lingering dislike. Whereas Victor had
at least greeted him grudgingly, the oldest boy had not even acknowledged him. That slate-gray gaze had gone right through him.

“Breakfast!” Paula called out.

As they stepped back inside, Gus entered with a cautious expression that turned taciturn when he saw the same sandwiches, only now cut into fourths and with the stale edges trimmed off.

“I'm not hungry,” he said.

His father, rather than argue, went to the van and returned with a package of cinnamon rolls that he had stashed away before they left Texas. He pulled a roll from the rest and offered it to Gus.

“Sure you're not hungry?”

Gus gathered his willpower into a resolute head shake. “You said you didn't want us to pig out on junk food.”

He was hoping to get his siblings on his side and get them to turn down the bribe. Paula, however, helped herself to his roll. “This isn't pigging out. It's a small treat.” She closed her eyes and gave a small smack of delight. “Besides, who knows how long it will be before we have something this sweet again.”

Their father finished licking the leftover icing from his fingers. “Don't want to get the steering wheel all sticky.”

“Why?” asked Gabriel. “Are we going somewhere?”

“Of course. We're going to work. It's time to drive out to the field.”

Gabriel looked at him, incredulous. “What? We're in the
middle
of nowhere, and now we have to drive out to the
edge
of nowhere?”

“Think of the crew as an army,” said his father. “The camp is like … well, an army camp.” When the analogy
did not seem to satisfy his son, he added, “Don't tell me you expected to just stick your hand out the kitchen window and start picking strawberries from the garden?”

Gus answered for his brother. “Of course not, Dad. This dump doesn't even have a real kitchen, much less a garden.”

At the last minute their mother stayed behind, saying she needed to make the place more like home.

“That's impossible, Mom,” answered Gabriel. “And mind you, our home's nothing to brag about.”

“Well, then, I'll make it more … habitable.”

Gus assessed the place with a critical eye. “Yeah, maybe if you work really hard it might be fit for a family of raccoons.”

The rest of the family followed the caravan to a huge field they would harvest over the next few days. Although barely awake, Gabriel appreciated the weather, since back home an unrelenting cycle of heat and humidity had started weeks before. That single respite made California worth the trip, even if it meant fieldwork.

The climate offered another advantage—the countryside had the lushness of paradise. During summers in south Texas, except for irrigated areas, the parched landscape barely sustained scrawny brush and stunted trees. Here the vegetation flourished. Although Gabriel had noticed an irrigation ditch here and there, it still could not explain the greenery all around.

They arrived at the field with explicit instructions from their father to mimic the other workers. Paula listened carefully, even though earlier she had been given the choice of helping their mother or of harvesting.

“I thought you were smart,” Gus told her as they stepped out of the van. “You could have stayed back there.”

“So?”

“So you'll see.”

“I was curious. I can always do housework at home. Besides, this way I can tell my kids how I once worked my butt off in the fields.” She smiled and turned her gaze toward their father.

Their father could not overhear the discussion, but he did notice her enigmatic gaze. Instead of bothering to ask her anything, he immediately looked elsewhere. “Gustavo, don't make trouble.”

“How can I? I don't have a clue what's going on, or what we're supposed to do.” He studied the field at his feet. “We're supposed to be picking berries? I don't see any.”

“Get your face closer to the ground.”

“You mean in those weeds?”

“They're not weeds. They're strawberry plants.”

He did a double take. “I thought strawberries grew on bushes, like when people pick berries in the movies. But these … we'll have to really get down and look hard to get these things.” He approached the field cautiously, as if it were seeded with landmines. “I still don't see a single strawberry.”

Don Pilo gave a soft giggle. “That's because this part of the field's been picked. We have to move farther down. See where my boys are?”

“You'll have to excuse my sons, Señor. They're a little inexperienced at this.” Don Pilo barely acknowledged them and instead smiled at Paula, so their father added, “My daughter's just as green.”

“No wonder my oldest boy said there was a pretty, new girl in camp.”

“I guess you could say that.” She neither blushed nor missed a beat. “I am pretty new at this.”

“Dad,” Gus said under his breath, “because of you we're going to lose street cred in front of everyone.”

But their father merely asked, “Mind if my boys tag along with yours until they learn the ropes?”

“Mine don't mind if yours don't mind getting beat. My boys thrive on competition. People say they're the best pickers in camp … maybe in the next camp too.”

“Well, my boys might as well learn from the best.”

Don Pilo turned to Paula with a pleasant smile and removed his hat. “You're welcome to tag along too,
señorita
.”

One of Don Pilo's boys ran over and whispered something in his ear. Before the boy could return to the field, Don Pilo had him shake hands with the newcomers.

By now the Borrados were well into their respective rows, so Gus and Gabriel plodded to the far end of the field. While they waited for the Borrados to start new rows, Gabriel monitored their moves. Observing those swift movements that seemed a smear of activity instead of discrete actions, he twisted their nickname into a more kinetic moniker:
borroso
—blurred.

But even after they all begin a new row, the Borrados lost them in a matter of minutes. Only Paula kept up the pace for a while, and only because the oldest one helped her with her row.

Gabriel's excuse for falling behind was that he was observing the Borrados' technique, until he ended up overwhelmed by their sheer oddness. The oldest, around Gus's age, barely came up to Gabriel's shoulders. The other two—one probably Gabriel's age, the other younger—were even more puny, but could still beat Gabriel by a country mile. Simply watching them produced a despair that fatigued him.

As he studied them that day, it was obvious they had inherited neither their energy nor their work ethic from their father. Physically, Don Pilo appeared as unimposing as his sons, even among migrants who frayed and shrank by the time they turned forty. He spent more time shepherding his boys on the field than harvesting. He reminded Gabriel of a general who stayed behind the lines to command his troops. In fact, his flirting with the camp's women seemed so innocuous that even the most possessive husbands and fathers did not take offense.

His sons, though, rarely stood still, even when they were idle, yet Gabriel never saw them perspire. Instead of sweat beads their skin oozed a sticky sheen, like the fruit nectar that the local canneries distilled. It gave them a slightly odd waft, like the fragrance of fermenting fruit that most girls liked, but that made them few friends among males. Soon the Borrados were left with two less friends after Gabriel and Gus realized they were being befriended simply to whet the Borrados' competitive streak.

That evening, when the van returned to the shack, both brothers tried to jump out at once, only to find that their bodies and wills had become numb during the ride back. Since Gus reached the door first, Gabriel and Paula knew he would claim the only cushioned chair inside, an old recliner that no longer reclined, so they sprawled on some rusty porch chairs instead. Their father remained behind the wheel for several minutes longer. When he finally managed to reach the porch steps, he tried hard to grin but could only manage a grimace.

“I'll never tell Mr. Woods he works us too hard in the garage,” he called out to their mother.

“At least come indoors,
mi rey
. You've been outside all day.”

“I would, but I'll bet it's cooler out here.”

He had barely finished the phrase when Gus walked out with a perplexed expression. “I just realized there's no bathroom.”