The Maldonado Miracle (7 page)

Jose heard a voice speaking in English just behind him. "Hey, where'd you learn to do that?" He did not understand the words but knew that they formed a question.

Grinning, he turned. "Hi,
amigo.
"

The glider zoomed crazily through the air, and the red-haired boy laughed. "Wow," he yelled. He had freckles and a wide mouth. There were wire braces on his teeth.

As usual, the fly eventually loosened itself and took off like a frightened midget quail. The glider came slowly back to earth, landing perfectly on its spar.

Jose shook the vial and held it up, nodding toward the glider. The boy grinned and ran for it. When he came back, Jose passed him the glue and motioned for him to try it.

"Who taught you that?" the boy asked. "I've never seen that before."

Jose thought he understood but didn't know how to explain. There weren't many things to do at Cabo Colnett, so you invented things that cost little money. Hies were free. Glue wasn't much. If you were careful, a glider lasted hundreds of flights.

"I'm Michael. Mike," the boy said.

That translated to Miguel, Jose was certain.

Jose tapped his chest. "Jose Maldonado. Joe."

The boy examined the raging flies.

Jose said, "You, Miguel. Fly. Fly." He made an airplane motion with his hands.

They made eight more flights and then fixed the bike chain. Finally they went inside. Jose had never been in an
americano
house. No one else was home. The kitchen was dazzling white and full of machinery.

They went up to Michaels room. He had his own bed; books, games, a train, even a radio. Jose sat on the edge of the bed, smiling and nodding, touching something now and then, yet not wanting to let the red-hair know he'd never seen a boy's room so full of things.

In late afternoon, he went back to Cabin 6 to tell Giron about it, the words rushing out. He told him everything except the fact that he now thought he'd like to have white skin and red hair like Miguel. Speak English and live in a house like that.

Sunday morning, Jose dressed for mass, putting on a fresh shirt and clean pants, getting his black boots out of tissue paper beneath the bunk. Giron had reluctantly agreed to take him in, and they locked Sanchez in the cabin.

On the way, Jose said, "I think I should go to confession soon."

"Certainly," Giron replied. "I'll have to check the priest's schedule."

"Should I tell the priest about the fence? Where I'm from?"

Giron looked over. "You don't need to go that far. No one has ever told a priest absolutely everything."

Jose laughed. That's what Enrique had said, too.

They didn't have to walk all the way. One of the flatbeds chugged past them and stopped. They brushed the field dirt off and leaped up to the rough boards.

 

M
ISSION
S
AN
R
AMON
had been periodically rebuilt since the early 1900s and was constructed in the familiar square-fort form, a Moorish-style, bell-towered church dominating the southwest corner. Inside the square were the gardens, a patio, and a walkway, which were usually occupied by swarms of white pigeons. Some of the early friars and their Indian converts were buried in the gardens, spaced around the Fourteen Stations of the Cross.

On the other three sides of the square were the original workshops, storerooms, and kitchen. From the end of the church and sacristy, under thick, vine-wrapped arches, were the old padre and guest rooms. They now housed Father Lebeon, the mission priest, his brother monks, and his staff. Two storerooms had been converted into a museum, displaying ancient Bibles, books on medicine, Indian paintings, branding irons for the mission cattle, old vestments, and prayer books.

Jose and Giron strolled around until eleven and then went into the church. The padre was a compact, dark-haired man. His cheeks were pale, with a spot of color near each cheekbone.

Jose whispered to Giron, "He looks very tough."

Like his father, he had always been afraid of priests. They represented great authority.

Giron nodded.

After a while, Father Lebeon began delivering his sermon in English, which was of little satisfaction to Jose. He'd always been bored by sermons, anyway, even in Baja. He liked the ceremony, the music, the stained-glass windows, the statues, but never the sermons.

Yet this was a beautiful church, quite unlike any he'd ever seen. It was by far the oldest church he'd been in. It was not as fancy as the big one in Ensenada; not half the size, either. But there was something very peaceful about it.

When the mass was over, the noon Angelus was rung by one of the Franciscan brothers. As they went out into the bright sunshine, to the tolling of the bell, Jose asked, "What'll we do this afternoon?"

Looking down the length of San Ramon, which seemed abandoned, Giron sighed. There was really nothing to do. "If I was back in Los Angeles, I'd probably go sailing with a friend of mine off Long Beach. And I'd take you. But here ... I think we'd better just go back to the camp and lie under the pepper trees. I've got some work to do on my notes."

Jose groaned.

But as they walked away, Giron said, "I hear we'll have a day off next week. Before we shift to picking cucumbers. You and I will go to Salinas, a city north of here. Not as large as Los Angeles or San Francisco but large enough. How's that?"

"Couldn't I be caught?"

Giron laughed. "No, put that out of your mind. You've seen all the Mexicans around here. You look no different from them."

That was true, Jose thought. He just felt different.

That afternoon, Jose took three hours to draw a portrait of Giron and then presented it to him.

"It's terrific, Jose," Giron said. "It looks just like me."

He did not say the ears were too big.

T
HE TOMATO FIELDS
were finished Monday. They worked until dark to load the last lugs. There would be a later pick when more ripened. But now the loading platforms were jammed with boxes labeled "Bright-Pack." Heavy diesel trucks were being filled and lumbered out periodically. The pickers would not work again until Wednesday morning. Some of the men had already left Haines Main to go on to other farms. Not so many would be needed for the cucumbers.

Just past seven on Tuesday morning, Jose and Giron walked and hitched to San Ramon to catch the Greyhound north. Giron wore slacks, a yellow jumper, and expensive-looking shoes. Jose was proud to be with him. He looked more
americano
than Mexican.

As they sat down, far in the back, Jose whispered, "Did you see how the bus driver stared at me?"

Giron laughed it off. "Put it out of your mind." As he dug his shoulders into the soft seat, he added, "As a matter of fact, Mexico used to own this state. You and I are the new Mexican army. We'll take it back again."

Jose laughed, too, feeling less like a criminal.

The bus began to speed along the freeway, skirting the Salinas River. "That is part of the reason the earth is so good here, Jose. But it's a strange river. Sometimes it runs on the surface; sometimes underground for long distances."

"You know a lot of things," Jose said.

Giron smiled. "I know we will conquer Salinas."

Jose decided to pretend, just for the day, that Giron was his father. Giron was dressed so well, and was so confident about everything. Maldonado would not mind, he knew.

The countryside became even more fertile as they went north. In some fields, dozens of irrigation nozzles swished back and forth, sending great sprays of shining water across the crops. Back on the yellowed hills to the east, at the beginning of the mountains, cattle grazed. Jose wondered if Baja would ever look like this.

They rode in silence for a while and then Giron said, "We'll walk around, see the stores, have a good meal. Perhaps we can find a movie this afternoon."

Jose nodded happily. He'd been to the cinema once in Ensenada; the second trip there, when he was eleven.

"You should see Cantinflas. Maybe we can find a Cantinflas film. There are several Spanish movies in Salinas."

Jose had heard of Cantinflas and had seen posters of his films. He was a comedian with a face like an egg and a small mustache.

Giron turned in his seat. "I have an idea. When I was a student at Los Angeles State, we used to try to find everything that was free in town. It's a good game, I'll show you."

The bus ducked down off the freeway to stop for a few minutes in several small towns and then they were in Salinas.

Jose was awed by the city. Salinas made Ensenada appear as small as San Vicente. He couldn't imagine what Los Angeles might be like.

As they moved along the busy street, shops and stores crammed against each other, everyone hurrying somewhere, Jose noticed a secretive smile on Giron's face. Suddenly, the teacher nudged him. "In here," he said. They turned into a large store.

"It's like a department store, but it's really a pharmacy," Giron said, as they went through a turnstile.

He paused a moment, looking around. He had the air of the officials who sometimes drove down from Ensenada to inspect finished road work, Jose thought. They always held their noses up high.

There weren't many customers this early. The clerks were busy stocking shelves and dusting them. Everything from candy and toys to canvas chairs and fishing rods was on sale. In the back of the store was a
farmacia
counter.

Stopping by one counter, Giron said, "Ah, hah, here we are." All sorts of razors, the straight kind, the safety kind, and the ones with motors on them, were being sold. In front of one variety was a sign: "Free Demonstration." Jose translated,
Demostration Gratis.
Some words in English were very close to Spanish.

Giron cleared his throat importantly and picked up the electric razor. It whirred over his chin. Eyebrows raised, he studied the path of the razor in a small mirror on the counter. He was acting like a
Numero Uno,
a "Number One," customer.

"Will you buy it?"

"Not at all." Giron grinned.

When he had finished shaving, he placed the razor down thoughtfully, inspected his face, grunted approval, and said, "Come along, we have other things to do here."

At another counter there was a rack of small bottles with rubber bulbs on top. Giron looked them over and lifted one off. He said, "I am pretending I am Cantinflas." Pointing the bulb toward his face, he squeezed it.

Jose stifled a laugh. The clerk was only a few feet away. Perfume was heavy in the air. Giron shot a squirt toward Jose.

The clerk said, "Now, mister."

Giron replaced the bottle and bowed slightly.

On the way out, he said, "See, I told you how many things are free in this country." They left the drugstore, laughing as if they'd defeated the entire American Army.

"Now, we will attack a supermarket," Giron said.

They began searching for one, pausing once in front of an automobile place. The shining cars, doors invitingly open, stood on deep red carpets. Giron said, "If we were not just on holiday, we would go inside and I would say, "I am Rafael Giron, a millionaire from Los Angeles, and I am thinking of buying a new car.' They would give us a Cadillac, of course, and we would drive round and round. Then we'd go back, and I'd say, "I don't like this one, how about that one?'"

They found a Safeway and sampled a cheese dip. The next store wasn't so generous, but at a third one a lady in a pink apron was serving small cups of a new chocolate drink. Giron raved over it in Spanish until the woman's mouth dropped. They got a free yardstick in a hardware store and a free balloon in a shoe store. And each time they came out they burst into laughter.

Then Giron led Jose up and down several streets until they came to a small store that had a palette on the window. It was an art supply store. Easels and tubes of paint and wooden mannequins were on display.

Giron nodded. "Let's go in."

The store was crammed with canvasses, frames, tubes of paint, art books and things that Jose had never seen.

At the counter, Giron said, "All right, you're the expert. Tell me what you need to start painting. But be reasonable."

"I don't know,
señor.
" Just looking around would have been enough. Jose found it hard to think.

Giron asked the woman at the counter and she began putting tubes in front of them. Giron held one up. "Grumbacher's Finest Zinc White. Is this all right?"

Jose nodded.

"And how about some Cadmium Yellow, Pale?"

Jose nodded again.

"And some Thalo Yellow, Green."

Jose said, "
Señor
Giron..."

Giron laughed. "Cadmium Red, Deep. I've never heard of these colors."

"Neither have I."

The saleswoman put four more out, along with two brushes and six small mounted canvasses.

"It is too much," Jose protested.

Giron shrugged and asked for the price.

"Eleven dollars and sixty cents," said the woman.

Giron looked down at Jose. "It's very expensive to be a painter," he said.

"Put them back," Jose said. It was too expensive.

Giron laughed. "Oh, what the hell." He paid the woman, and they went out again, Jose clutching the large bag, thanking Giron profusely.

On the street, Jose said, "I promise you that someday I'll be as famous as Orozco."

"You shoot high enough," Giron said, chuckling.

Finally, at about four o'clock, after they'd had lunch and seen a film, Giron said, "Now, I'll treat myself."

Jose stood outside a bar with dice on its windows and watched as the teacher went in and had two straight drinks. They went down bang, bang. He came out rubbing his belly and grinning.

They caught the 4:35 Greyhound to San Ramon. There had never been such a good day, Jose thought.
Los Estados Unidos
was everything he'd dreamed of.

N
OT LONG AFTER
they'd returned to Haines Main, the man from
next
door, Cubria, the checker player, knocked on the cabin and asked Giron if he'd like to go into Paso Robles; have a few beers, maybe look at the girls.