The Memories of Ana Calderón (4 page)

They walked in silence, and as the sun rose, its golden light elongated the shadows cast by the Calderón family. Not far behind came Octavio, who tip-toed and crouched, taking
small, hesitant steps because he feared being seen by Rodolfo. The boy would not stay behind despite the older man having forbidden him to follow them. Octavio felt that they were his family, the only ones he had really known, and he loved them, especially Ana and Alejandra. So he darted from behind trees and bushes, hoping that a miracle would happen at the last minute.

When the family arrived at the edge of town, Rodolfo pointed in the direction where the buses were stationed. They were battered, scratched vehicles; the hand-printed signs on their sides were so faded that most were unreadable. The children giggled and stared wide-eyed at the disheveled bus drivers. Only Alejandra was withdrawn; she seemed to be somewhere else. Ana had taken César out of his pouch and put him on the ground. She held his hand, but he began to cry, motioning to her that he wanted her to pick him up in her arms again.

Rodolfo turned to Ana. “Wait here. I'm going in to buy our tickets. Make sure no one strays away.”

When Octavio saw this, he rushed from behind the squat building that served as the station office. “Chsst! Ana…Alejandra…I'm here!”

Everyone was caught off guard. They had already said goodbye to him and no one imagined that he had been behind them all the time. Alejandra, her eyes inflamed and blurry, let out a yelp of joy. Ana, still holding her brother in her arms, didn't seem surprised, however. “I told all of you he'd come.” Turning to Octavio, she said, “What are you going to do now, Tavo? We don't have money to buy you a ticket.”

“I don't know, but I can't stay. I want to be with you.”

Alejandra, whose face had drained of color, was biting her lip, trying to hold back the tears that were again assaulting her. “Ana, please think of something. Please!”

The other girl was looking around her as if searching for the answer. Then, smiling broadly, she pointed to the bus she supposed they would be taking. “Well, just wait until the bus gets going, and then you can hang on to that ladder that's stuck on the back of it. I've seen lots of kids like you doing that. No one will know until we get to the next town, and then 'Apá will have to let you come along with us.”

The girls all gawked at the built-in ladder meant to be used for loading baggage on the roof of the vehicle, and their
eyes grew rounder with each moment as they grasped the height that Octavio would have to manage. His eyes, too, were riveted on the highest rung. He ran his tongue over his lips before he spoke.

“I…I…yes…I've seen boys do that…but just around here, on these short streets.”

“Oh, well, if you're scared to do it…”

“I'm not scared, Ana.” Octavio hesitated, trying to decide what to do. He finally blurted out, “Yes! I'll do it that way!”

“Tavo, what if you fall?”

“I won't fall, Alejandra. I promise.”

When Rodolfo reappeared, Octavio dove for cover behind the bus. The boy began to stretch and flex his short fingers in preparation. He had nothing to carry; he was wearing everything he owned. But he regretted that he was wearing shoes because they were beginning to hurt his feet, and because he was unused to wearing shoes he felt as if he would lose his balance. He plopped down on the dirt and removed them. Then, tying them by their laces, Octavio wrapped his shoes around his neck. He felt secure now, knowing that he could use his feet and toes to help his hands stick to the ladder. No matter what happened, he knew that nothing would knock him off the bus.

Rodolfo gave them instructions. “Hold each other's hands.” The children obeyed him, and they followed him to a bus which was warming its engine. Once at the door, he lifted up each girl, beginning with the smallest. When Ana with César on her back stepped onto the running board, Rodolfo muttered, “God help me.” He handed the fares to the driver as he hoisted himself aboard.

Once on the bus, they saw that it was nearly filled to capacity. But the passengers were kind and some of them even changed places so that the family could sit together. Alejandra insisted on sitting at the rear of the bus, but her father instructed her to stay with the rest of her sisters. She became despondent and seemed close to tears, even though Ana kept giving her glances that said that Octavio would be fine.

The bus lurched forward, bouncing on the rough road that headed up the coast to the port city of Veracruz. The vehicle steadily picked up speed once it reached the highway, which was also filled with bumps and holes. Alejandra
became paler with each impact, and when Rodolfo noticed her sickly look, he leaned over the others to speak to her. “Hija, come over here so you can put your head on my shoulder.”

She moved over to his side and buried her head in his shirt. Some time passed and the road seemed to become even worse. When Alejandra could no longer control her anxiety, she began to cry.

“
¿Qué pasa
, Aleja?” Rodolfo called her by the name he used to show her affection. He wanted to know why she was crying.

“'Apá, he's back there and he's going to fall and get killed!”

Startled, Rodolfo put his hand under the girl's chin and lifted her face so that he could look more closely at her. “Back there? Who's back there?”

“Tavo. He's hanging on to the bus, but I think he's going to fall and get killed.”

“Octavio!…” There was disbelief in Rodolfo's voice.

Her father moved Alejandra away as he turned in his seat to look to the rear of the bus. He rose and groped his way back to the dingy window where he could get a view of the outside of the bus. His breath skipped when he was able to make out two small hands gripping one of the rungs of the ladder. He could see that the knuckles were a grayish brown. That was all Rodolfo could make out because of the cloud of dust being churned up by the speeding bus.

Rodolfo tripped over bundles and boxes as he rushed up the aisle to the driver. He vaguely heard disgruntled muttering telling him to watch out, to be more careful. “Señor, my son is hanging to the rear of the bus. Please stop!”

“
¿Qué?
”

“I said, please stop the bus! Please stop it slowly or he'll be killed.”

The driver muttered obscenities, but he began to apply the brakes as his eyes searched for a flat spot on the side of the road. The passengers craned their necks, looking in every direction, not knowing why they were stopping in the middle of nowhere. Their first guess was that the tall man talking with the driver had to get off the bus to rush over to the first clump of bushes. Some of the people began to snicker, criticizing him for not being able to hold on until the next town.

When the driver pulled the lever opening the door,
Rodolfo leaped out, not bothering to use the steps. He ran to the rear of the vehicle where he found Octavio, his hands still clinging to the rung and his toes nearly welded to the ladder. The boy's body was gray with dust, his eyes were shut tightly, and his head dangled backward. He seemed close to fainting. Rodolfo took him in his arms, but the driver, who by that time was right behind, had to unclasp the boy's fingers one by one.

When some of the passengers began to get off the bus, the driver shouted at them to return to their places. Still muttering and complaining, he glared first at the boy and then at Rodolfo. “This will cost you another fare, you know. Now, let's get going. We're late enough as it is!”

As Rodolfo made his way down the aisle with Octavio in his arms, everyone stared at him, wondering where the boy had come from. They whispered to one another, wagging their heads, some in disbelief, others in disapproval. When Rodolfo returned to his seat, Octavio began to stir, and the girls clustered around him, rubbing his cheeks and chest. He finally opened his eyes and looked up at Rodolfo. He smiled so broadly and with so much happiness that the older man could not help himself when he hugged the boy close to his chest. A man seated close by passed a jug of water to Octavio, who took long gulps, spilling water down his chin and onto his dusty shirt. As the bus gained speed, Ana turned to Alejandra. “I told you 'Apá would let him come along.”

I remember our trip north as if it had happened yesterday; what is uncertain to me is time. I don't recall how many hours, or even days, it took the bus to arrive at Veracruz. I suppose that it was a hard trip for the grown-ups, who seemed to feel the bumps and curves in the road. They seemed to sweat more than the children as the heat seeped in through the windows and pounded the thin metal roof of the bus. But those of us who were kids didn't mind it. Alejandra was happy since Tavo was with us. As for myself, I sometimes thought of Tía Calista and what she would be doing. I recalled my mother, too, and how she was buried down deep under the dirt
with her little sons. But most of all, my thoughts carried me forward to the years when I would be free to dance out all the feelings I had inside of me.

My sisters thought the trip was exciting. Every time we stopped at a village or small town, someone always bought peanuts or a bag of oranges to share with us. Only 'Apá, I remember, looked very sad. He never said anything about money, but Alejandra, Tavo and I knew that he was worried about making it all the way to the valley watered by the Río Yaqui.

From Veracruz we took another bus headed for the capital. This time was different because the bus had to climb a giant mountain, the Orizaba. No one laughed on that part of the trip because most of us were sick. I hated every minute of it. I remember looking around and seeing that everyone's face was a grayish color. I imagined that my face must have looked like a bag filled with sour milk. My little sisters and César cried a lot. They wanted to go home to Tía Calista and they begged 'Apá to take them back. I think that this only made him sadder.

When we arrived in Mexico City, my father told us to hold hands and not let go of one another. I was so tired, though, that when I tried to put César on my back, I found out that I couldn't. 'Apá took him from me and carried him all the way as we walked to a part of town everyone called Tepito. We had an uncle there who would let us stay with him for a few days to rest.

We were scared because we had never seen so many cars and people all in one place. There were a lot of beggars, too, and they frightened us even more. But 'Apá seemed to know exactly where he was headed as he led us around corners and across streets and finally to a small store owned by our uncle.

My Tío Sempronio and his wife, Tía Olga, were waiting for us when we arrived at their store. We got there after dark, so the place was scary; it was lit only by a kerosene lamp hanging from one of the rafters. The place was tiny, and I remember that it smelled funny. I couldn't tell what it smelled of because it was like a mixture of many things. As I looked around, I saw a sack filled with rice and another one with beans. Above me, on the counter, there was a large basket filled with eggs, and next to it another one filled with onions and red chilies. High up on the ceiling, hanging from hooks, I
saw a ham and a big chunk of raw meat.

We stayed there several days, and during that time my father and Tío Sempronio talked for hours. They sat at the small kitchen table with their faces so close that their noses almost touched. Years later I found out why they spent so much time whispering. My Tío, who didn't have much money, had agreed to help us enough so that we could travel north to Sonora and the Río Yaqui.

During those hours, Tía Olga would take us out to see her city. She told us that it was a very large place where it was easy for children to get lost or get run over by a car. But we were never able to see how big the city really was because she only took us to the Shrine of Guadalupe, where she made us pray a rosary each time. This happened every time we left the store.

I didn't like the Shrine because it was spooky and the buzzing of prayers frightened me. But Tía Olga said that if a family prayed the rosary every day, that family would never separate, and much less would they commit serious sins. So I tried to concentrate on the Hail Marys and on the Our Fathers even though my knees hurt from kneeling on the stone floor.

We were at the end of our prayers during one of those days when I noticed a woman hobbling on her knees toward the main altar. She was dressed in black, and she wore a long shawl that covered her head and most of her face. When she came close to me, I was able to see that her face was puffy and blotched from crying, and that her eyes were so swollen that they looked like tiny slits. I watched her as she made her way to the railing and clung to it as if to keep from falling onto the cold stones. Her hunched shoulders heaved as she sobbed silently. Now and then she looked up to the picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe, and I could hear her mutter words that I couldn't make out.