Novel Excerpt: The Story of a Burrito

1927 Bogota, Colombia, Estado Federal de Cundinamarca

The train left the station a few minutes past noon. Opened in 1917, La Sabana was a neo-classical marvel and one of the many prides of Bogota. It radiated new wealth, celebrated modern engineering and emitted European influence. Less than ten years old. Still pristine. Glorious. On this day the Grillo family looked past the station’s stoic beauty and felt no pride in its construction. Yes, in part their mood was due to the weather. But their current circumstances cast a far darker shadow than the clouds and the rain. The past week had been sunny, clear and warm. This was not such a day. Instead, a major storm darkened the city and their world. Darkness was appropriate for this day. Today was the day they left the monster. 

Mama, Guillermo (16), Raphael (14), Carlos (9), Angel (6) and Celia Rosa (4) huddled near each other as the train rattled through, thus far, familiar territory. The three youngest kids stared out the window at an exciting, mysterious and glorious world filled with possibility and promises. A fearless sense of the unknown, they longed to reach the United States for their family vacation. They all knew the trip would become unfamiliar soon enough even while still in Colombia because they had rarely traveled out of Bogota. Once they reached the coast and boarded the ship for San Francisco, the world would become truly alien. And, unknown to them at the moment, the world would become truly difficult.  

Guillermo and Raphael were old enough to know: something is wrong. Neither boy had the words or experience to understand all that she had been through. How she had reached this decision. They bordered on scared but did not quite travel into that emotion. When Mama said “he’s going to meet us later in California” they tried to believe her. They also hoped it wasn’t true. 

The younger kids weren’t scared at all but Mama carried enough fear for a family twice their size. 

The unknown was terrifying, yes. But staying in Colombia, inconceivable. He had become too much. The man she had married was cold, merciless and ambitious. But she had seen warmth in his eyes and felt the tenderness of his touch. His quick wit and occasional signs of compassion. She had been captivated for decades. But the shine had worn off, her young heart had become wise. Even lately, he occasionally softened and, at moments, made her doubt what she was sure of.

His brutality was siloed in the early years. But that brutality was absolutely vital to his success as a soldier. In the unending violence that gripped Colombia for most of the 19th and 20th Centuries, his violent skills would be coveted. A kind man may have emerged in another life, another time. But in this world, he had been rewarded for fighting peasants in a civil war, burning familiar villages to the ground, torturing workers on strike…he did these, and more, and was rewarded again and again with promotion and prestige. The very features that made him an attractive soldier and a stable provider made him a repugnant husband and dangerous father. The silo had broken. He was nearly all brutal now. She took their savings, filled several trunks with valuables. She left. 

The train would carry them for days. Chugging through the jungle, over mountains and through temper tantrums, hunger, sleeplessness and boredom, the family continued through the days and days it took to reach the port on the Magdalena River. She paid their way and boarded the rickety old boat that would get them closer to the Pacific. 

At each train stop, at each meal they ate in an unfamiliar town, even sometimes on the train, boat or ship, she looked for him. As if he had returned early from his training in the deep jungle to discover the house a cold, silent, empty husk. He would shout, growl, “you will not take my children” and track her down hundreds and thousands of miles from their home. He’d find her and hurt her and take them back. Though she never did see him again–over the next forty years–she couldn’t help but look for him in the streets of Los Angeles, a hotel in El Paso, the subway in New York. As if at any moment–even when the children were grown and independent–he’d surprise her, strike her and yell “you will not take my children.”  

The fear abated over decades as she made her life in the United States but, at this moment, it enveloped her. Not only the fear of seeing him but of what would become of them in a foreign land where she knew no one and hardly knew a word of the language. Her children were strong “just like me” she would think. Through the rain and wind and cold and darkness, she’d say it to them all “estamos fuertes, estamos fuertes!”

Along the way, they lost weight, two suitcases, and many tears. But they also deepened a bond. They had passed the point of no return. There was power in that. They made their own diocese. Praying deeply together on their knees begging for forgiveness and guidance. Though they lost much, they kept the two giant trunks of valuables and most of their smaller cases. The bond, not possible at home in familiar circumstances, was now unbreakable and unexpected. Once they would have taken each other for granted. They would have eased into each day knowing what to expect with little need for improvisation. Their lives in Bogota were comfortable in many ways. They were an officer’s family and had many comforts most Colombians did not. But now, they were pilgrims in an unknown world. This pilgrimage would deepen their dependency upon each other and, for now, this and their Catholic faith sustained them.      

Over ten days they traveled through mountains, dense rainforests and jungles more lush than lush. Were there snakes? Yes. But also massive banana spiders, poisonous frogs and bullet ants. Through it all they remained safe. Though they missed going to mass as they traveled straight through a Sunday with no church in sight, they prayed the rosary together on Sundays, as they always had. On the river, on the train, boat, or on foot alongside a mule-powered caravan, in a horse-drawn carriage, and finally, by ship, they were unharmed save for the dozens of bug bites and blisters on their feet. Nearly two weeks after leaving Bogota, muddied and exhausted, they boarded the Primavera. Bound for San Francisco. 

1930 Yuma, Arizona, United States

As it was on most days in southwest Arizona, the air was dry and the sky was clear. The summer monsoon season had ended. Over the next seven months, the weather would likely be the same almost every single day: warm and clear. The Stevens family had lived in the area for more than ten years and the rhythms were predictable. Brutal heat in the summer broken only by an occasional downpour and electric sky. Then months and months of moderate weather until the heat returned. Monotonous, yes, but also reassuring in its predictability.

As she did each weekday, Irena would wake before dawn to start the family breakfast. As the oldest, she had the most to do each day which began with feeding her father, mother, two sisters and two brothers. She was thirteen and Federico, the youngest, was five. She’d gather the dehydrated wood from the pile outside and light the stove to boil the water for oats, warm the skillet for the eggs and tortillas. While those heated, she’d peel the oranges, lemons and slice the melon.   

Slowly at first, they would start to enter the kitchen area from the three rooms. Isidora, Eva, and Irena shared one of those rooms while the young boys shared another. Freddie often snuck into his parent’s room at night leaving Antonio with a room all to himself. For all the other children, the answer had always been “No. You sleep in your own room,” they made an exception for Federico. Perhaps because he was the youngest and they tired of the battle. But they also knew their parents treated him more kindly because of his lip. He slurred his speech. He was sweet and kind and playful and the girls feared for him as he got older when the cleft lip would become a focus for so many people. At five years old, he knew nothing different and no one treated him cruelly. Not yet. Maybe never. Irena loved her parents for many reasons but their exceptional treatment of Freddie: her heart could break with love for them. 

The house was small but they knew nothing different. It was similar to the home Irena’d been born in south of the border. San Luis Rio Colorado, Sonora was her birthplace but she had no memory of it. Mother occasionally spoke of missing it. Moving to Yuma was only supposed to be temporary, she’d say. Until the construction job was done, she’d say. After that job Primitivo would then bring us back to San Luis, she’d say. But it hadn’t happened. Now she knew it would never happen. It couldn’t happen. The kids were all American now. This was their home. Undeniably. 

While Yuma was attractive because of the job, they had not planned to stay. But there were so many aspects exactly like Mexico. The produce, the pan dulce, the Churches, the language, many of the people. They lived where the Colorado River and downtown Yuma nearly intersected; the girls went to a nearby school and spoke some English which she could not understand. They all had friends. They had a dog. They could never leave even though life was not always easy. “But where is life easy?” Maria would think to herself. The economic catastrophe that gripped the nation and much of the world was just a newspaper headline here. They carried on. 

Primitivo always found another job and they lived a prosperous life compared to what they left behind in San Luis. He was well-compensated here as a stonemason. A craftsman with great physical strength and passable English. He was highly-sought after in the area. Sometimes needed in Tucson or Phoenix to work for weeks at commercial or residential sites. Far from rich, they were not struggling in abject poverty. More importantly, the threat of revolution or counter-revolution was not a daily fear.  

The cacophony of the Stevens house erupted as most of the children ate their breakfast and prepared to walk to school. They bickered and smiled, they laughed and drank cafe con leche and Mother, Father and Freddy emerged from the room on the other side of the house. Father was dressed in his overalls and work boots, Mother in her nightgown and Freddy in short pants, bleary eyed and anxious to see the other kids. 

Every one of the children stopped eating and ran towards their parents. A buenos dias without words. Smiles and hugs and warmth filled the small room. Most mornings were similar. There was no reason to doubt every morning, forever, would be the same.

Primitivo ate quickly and walked to the small barn behind the house to prepare Ismaell. As he entered the barn, Ulysses lifted his head and nearly barked, recognized the man and laid his head back down in the cool straw. The dog and the man made brief eye contact and exchanged affection without a sound. The man was kind. The dog was grateful. The horse would be fed, brushed and saddled for the ride across town. Primitivo mounted the old skinny horse and began the slow trot to the worksite. 

As they made their way down the wide street that had recently been paved, the town began to breathe. The tack shop, general store, movie theater, cafe and other businesses prepared to open their doors. The smell of bacon masked the smell of manure and car exhaust. A banker clutched his briefcase and whispered anxiously to himself, walking briskly on the newly constructed sidewalk. Several other people passed him to do important and unimportant things. A few other horses ambled on the way but mostly loud cars. Model Ts. Hudsons, Cadillacs, Chevrolets, and even one Packard passed down the street faster than Primitivo thought men were meant to travel. There was little traffic now in the waning dawn but as the day progressed, Main Street would be congested with these hulking noisy beasts. Later, the saloon and the hotel would perfume the air with music and mischief. Primitivo stayed away but they amused him from a distance. But that was hours away. First, he’d spend his day at the mansion.

“Primo, como ‘stas?” They’d all greet him. The team of workers weren’t family but in many ways they were brothers. Primitivo enjoyed their company but he was here to work, not chat. 

Several hours into the day, the foreman appeared as he often did. But today he had another white man with him. They had arrived in the very Packard Primitivo had seen hours ago. He looked up for just a moment from his work. Lifting the forty pound rock that had been pummeled into shape took all his effort. His callused hands became more so as they worked on this massive fountain project that would greet the mansion’s visitors. 

“This wetback can build just about anything from stone but I’ve had ‘em working on fountains last few months. He’s good, damn good,” Dale said to the other white man who just smiled and nodded at everything Dale said. Dressed in all white three piece suits while the others sweated and dirtied their clothes, the white men crossed the grounds and looked at the workers; the staircase carpenters inside and outside of the building; the framed lumber supplies arriving by horse-drawn carriage and truck; bricklayers at work on the walls around the compound; electricians running wire; plumbers burying copper pipe around the fortress; landscapers planting flowers; the action was constant. Dale and the mansion’s owner seemed pleased with the work but mostly with themselves.

A week passed. Day after day, the same. Work, eat, sleep, again and again. As the mansion rose up and the fountain came along, the walls were erected, the stairs completed and electricity glowed, the home was almost done. Completing the fountain and contributing all around the property brought Primitivo deep satisfaction. The young men would get their pay and head downtown for whiskey at one of the few bars that served them. But he was content completing the work. Saving the money for something. He had all he needed at home. Though he and the young men differed in many ways, they were united in at least one thing. They were Mexicans. 

Very soon, the mansion, like many of the other buildings they constructed, would be forbidden to them. No gringo–especially a mansion-owning one–would invite them into their home. Their wives or daughters may be allowed as nannies or maids, but the men were done when the whites moved in. This was not disappointing or frustrating. Only denied possibilities are frustrating.    

Arriving home, Ulysses would run down the dirt road to him as he neared the barn. He’d dismount and care for the horse, pet the dog and stop at the wash basin outside. For a moment, he was alone on his own property. Tired but not quite exhausted as he would have been two months ago in the brutal summer sun. From the edge of the road, to the barn, to the house, it was his. Nothing like this was possible for him just south of the border. 

Before heading into the house, he waited for just a moment to enjoy the dusky calm. The sound of the river gently swimming by was distant, soft, soothing. The sky was clear but was turning a dark bruise as the sun walked away. Evening made its way to the stage and he felt a vague whisper of rain. Just a rumor on the gentle breeze for now. Rain usually meant no work. But that was ok. The mansion was done and a new build would surely come along soon. For now, he was content. He took a deep breath of the quiet landscape and made his way into the noisy house full of children.  

The kids had spent a few hours at school but mostly at work. On the property. Hand washing laundry. Kneading masa. Chopping onions and peppers. Sweeping. Cleaning the cow carcass. Crushing dried chiles. Pulling weeds from the small field in which they grew corn. The family was a small town, a community abuzz, working together for their own needs. They were strong and happy and dry. For the moment. 

Rain is rare here at all times of year. Yuma, Arizona is one of the driest and sunniest places on earth and, when it does rain, it’s typically in the summer monsoon. The winds come up from the Gulf of California, cross dry heated desert, building clouds of magnificent power, moisture and lightning. The unstable combination of punishing heat with high winds and humidity makes for mesmerizing storms and dramatic downpours that last a few minutes to an hour or two, illuminating the land for miles around in brief but impressive bolts. Storms move on quickly and leave the land with some temporary relief. The sun returns and the pattern goes on with most clouds passing harmlessly. Fall, winter and spring are almost inevitably dry. But climate, like all of nature, has exceptions.

They had eaten dinner and read several Bible verses in both insecure English and fluent Spanish. The girls enthusiastically read from the Book. The candles were blown out, they took turns using the single bathroom and all went to their beds. The house was still, quiet, calm. It was not so different from thousands of other nights they’d shared.

As sleep nearly arrived for most, the drip, drip, drip began after midnight. Though just a drizzle, the tin roof made any amount of rain sound like a downpour. Irena was the first to get up. She walked to the kitchen in the near pitch black knowing each step by heart. She looked out the window into the yard and the rain fell steadily. She watched for a few minutes when Primitivo came out to join her and they stared in silence at the unusual and welcome rain. The crops, the city streets, the dust…it would all be baptized. After a few minutes, they both decided to return to bed. Father typically prepared his own meals on the weekends when he had to work, but the rain meant everyone could sleep later than usual if they could endure the metal clanking. Of course, this being Yuma, the rain would pass quickly and the sun would return.        

The sun was denied entry in the morning. While its presence could not be completely banned, the rain had continued through the night. The sky, still dark, though it was now 7:30 in the morning. The obstinate sunlight wrapped around the clouds and illuminated the wet earth around them. The children all got up and dressed. 

“We want to go out in the rain, Papa,”  Irena said in a mix of Spanish and English.

“But darling, why would you like to go get all wet and muddy? You’ll get soaked.”

“That’s right, Papa,” she responded.

“We never got soaked before,” Tony finished her argument for her. 

Primitivo hesitated but Maria suddenly spoke up, “wait a few minutes for it to warm up a bit, then you can go out. Papa will go with you,” Primitivo slowly turned towards her with a grin that said I have to go too?  

All the children yearned to get out in the rain and the mud like it was the first snow-storm of the year in a northern clime. This would be as close as they would get to such weather excitement in Yuma. As the morning aged, the rain remained a drizzle. It had been a steady drizzle for nearly eight hours. A downpour was lying in wait nearby. 

Water eats. It eats concrete and asphalt. It eats metal, bone, and skin. It devours trees, boulders and mountains. Typically in ways that are slow and steady and lacking any drama except to an immortal eye. But when the rain falls this long in the hard desert, the land cannot be eaten quickly enough. The rain can slide along the cement of sand and create a river of terrifying speed. 

Such a river was gathering several miles from the Stevens’ home. At the same time, the water consumed the river banks of the Colorado. The bank was turning to mush while the river’s volume increased with every drop of rain. The rain’s violence was increasing now at this spot not far from their home. While it fell hard in the desert, it lacked intrigue; there was no one to see it and declare it dramatic. For now, it was alone, crashing to the earth in solitary confinement, a performance for no audience. The coyotes and rabbits, snakes and scorpions, birds and prairie dogs had all fled the scene. It was just water from the sky at a lonely spot in the sand. Unacknowledged by any living being. But it was torrential and earnest. It was the star of its own film.

At the last moment before they all ventured out of the house and into the storm, Irena changed her mind. Suddenly overcome with a desire NOT to get soaked and muddy. “I will stay in here with Mom. Nice and dry and clean. We’ll make lunch.” After a few moments of lackluster pleading from her siblings, they left her and their mother behind; stay dry and clean and boring.

While the rest of the family poured out into the rain, Maria and Irena chopped more chiles and rinsed the tripe that had been soaking since last night. They combined the hominy, the chiles, oregano, onion and garlic in a pot to boil along with the tripe. Next, mother poured the flour into a large bowl and combined it with the salt and baking soda which were soon followed by the lard and water. Together, their four hands worked the dough in the large bowl. They silently kneaded the dough, the rhythm of the rain, the musical score to their work.

In a little more than two hours, they would have fresh tortillas and hot bowls of menudo for everyone who came home cold, dirty and soaked. By the time the soup was done, there would be one less mouth to feed.  

The five of them set out of the house. Freddie did the obligatory extension of his hands by his sides to feel the drizzle on his palms. Ulysses came out of the barn, not happy with the rain but thrilled to be a part of the “gang.” All of them had hats but Primitivo removed his, closed his eyes and craned his head up to the sky to let water drip onto his face. Tony emulated his father. 

The rest of the kids followed Ulysses as he ran towards the river. Freddie led the way towards Ulee. The boy stumbles his way through the mud, giggling. Eva found a small puddle and pounced into it creating a wave that splashed all around her. Laughing, she ran towards Freddie, passed him and was running toward her dog who was now almost out of sight. Freddie and Eva headed in Ulee’s direction when the dog came running full speed at them. He jumped up onto Freddie. Though not a large dog, his enthusiasm nearly knocked Freddie to the ground and both boy and dog filled with unbridled excitement. The dog’s eyes, all smiles. Freddie giggled hysterically and Eva ran faster towards the riverbank.

“Wait for us!” yelled Dora, as she, Primitivo and Tony approached. Freddie and Eva continued to run towards the river. They wanted to see the tumultuous water speeding towards Mexico like a rolling rapid. Here in Yuma, the mighty Colorado narrows to a trickle compared to most of its length. Here it is manageable and meek, a distant relative to the mighty rapids and wide berth that thunders through the west. But even this relatively tame section of the river was thunderous today. 

Eva and Freddy neared the soft muddy edge staring down into the rumbling white caps as the river grumbled past them on its way to the nearby Mexican frontier. Violent, unsettling, mesmerizing.

As Father and the other kids got near the river, the impossible did not happen. It could not happen. And yet, it did. 

It approaches. 

Only a short distance away in the deep desert, the rain was more committed to reaching the earth than near their house. Near home, it was a drizzle. Only a few miles away, it was a menace. 

The flood is not wide but is nearly three feet deep now and has gathered speed and passengers along its way; desert trash dropped over many years. Beer and soda bottles, abandoned suitcases and broken jars; wooden planks from an incomplete construction site; pieces of discarded furniture and a forgotten shoe. None of those matter. The only significant passenger arrives in a split second and must be an illusion moving at the speed of a reality that cannot be. It must be some work of a novelist’s mind. The Model T–thrown on its side–viciously arrives at the riverbank taking Eva and Freddie with it down to the river. 

Primitivo begins running and yells, “HIJOS. LA CASA. AHORA!” Dora and Tony stand frozen, not allowing what they have seen. “GO NOW.” He yells again. They turn and run towards home. 

Primitivo gets knocked to the ground in the flood as it careens down the bank to join the river. He cannot swim. Never needed or wanted to. Despite the force of the water and the slick conditions, he will not be stopped. He has only one fear now and it is not the fear of drowning. He rises up and makes his way to the bank. Looking down the bank, he sees Eva has sunk her hands deep into the mud and is holding on. She is not quite sliding down into the current. Her eyes are a portrait of fear and resolve. Her father reaches out and their muddy hands unite. With all his strength, he fights against their slime-slick hands and pulls her up and away from the path of the flood and to relative safety. 

“Stay here. I’m going for your brother.”

He slides down the embankment. No strategy or plan. Just panic and purpose. The car what car? is pinned partially in the river but it has dug into the muddy riverbank and lingers there as if suspended by some invisible chain. Each moment it gets closer to either floating away or digging in permanently, a deathmatch of industrial weight versus water’s relentless current.

The flood dissipates as it carreens over the edge of the river bank. The mud of the bank absorbs some of the flood but water is everywhere. From the sky. In the river. In the remnants of the flood that had the strength to move a car. 

He makes his way to the vehicle and the rain begins to fall even harder now. He sinks in the mud along with the car. They both–at any moment–could be swept away by water. Unsure what to do, he hears the unmistakable sound of his son’s voice. “Papa!” the sound is muffled, disrupted by the falling rain and the mud that is now filling Freddie’s mouth and the automobile he is pinned beneath.  

Struggling to get his hands beneath the car to lift it, Primitivo tries to brace himself. He knows what he must do cannot be done. 

There is no footing or leverage to be gained. Even in perfect conditions, lifting over two a thousand pounds is impossible for even a man of his exceptional strength. 

He tries.

He tries again.

His calloused and muscular hands grip the car’s frame and he heaves. But it weighs so much, it weighs more than the earth, more than the universe. There is no hope. 

He tries again.

It budges just a bit as he lets out a guttural sound no human has ever made. He heaves again. Five minutes have passed. He has not heard any other sounds except the squelch of the car as it moves in the mud, the crash of the river as it races past and the ruthless rain as it steadily falls. He does not hear the sound he needs to hear more than any other.

He tries once more, with all his might. His hands are bloodied and bruised. His back will never be healthy again. The car moves enough now that the current catches it and Primitivo heaves the vehicle away into the current. As he does, the metal frame digs into his right hand. All of the car’s weight rests on this hand. As it slips away, it takes most of the skin from his wrist to the tips of his fingers leaving his wedding ring behind. A patch of unharmed skin remains in the shape of that ring. Pain nearly sends him into a deadly blackout until he sees his son half buried in the mud. The excruciating pain in his hand, the catastrophic injury to his back, they are numbed. 

Freddie is dead.    

Weeks pass. Grief invades, retreats, and invades again. 

Letters were written to extended family deep in Mexico: another remembrance should be added to the family altar. If loved-ones traveled to every funeral of a family member throughout Mexico and the Southwest United States, they would rarely stop traveling. Death was ubiquitous. While the ability to travel great distances was unprecedented, except for the wealthiest or most desperate, such travel was still uncommon more than once in a lifetime. When people moved far from their origins, they rarely saw their families again. And rarely had so many people lived so far from extended family which made funerals of the early 20th Century radically different from those of most human history. For centuries–or more– families lived near each other and gathered en masse to mourn their dead. Rail and bus and cars and planes had changed so much about humanity’s options. Mourning rituals were no exception. Instead of being surrounded by family, mourners were now often surrounded by a community of acquaintances who shared a language, a religion and bits and pieces of many similar cultures.

The large hispanic community of Yuma bonded together. They cooked for them and, despite their own property losses from the unprecedented storm, they showed up day after day. They did what they could after the vicious storm destroyed so much but killed only one. 

The doctor in town tried but Primitivo’s hand was so badly damaged, nearly useless. A scab formed, they kept nfection away but some joints will never recover. All the way up his wrist, ligaments and tendons will never heal. These tendons had been taken along with his young son, the hand a reminder. His hand has been sentenced to a life of uselessness; he cannot grip, cannot form a fist, cannot work as he used to. Even though he is left-handed, without two hands, he cannot. But his back is worse. Less visible, but worse. Though undiagnosed, Primitivo had herniated three discs. The pain emanated from his back and reached all the way down to the toes of both feet. Always the pain remained. Always the loss.   

Dale and other whites of the town contributed money to support the family, as well. It helped. But after a month, the time had come to make a decision. Primitivo and Maria lay in bed wondering:

“Back to Mexico? Back to family. Maybe move in with my sister for a while. Or stay here.”

“Stay in Yuma and do what? I can’t stay here where there are so many reminders… I’m no longer a man. I could not save my son. I cannot work. What am I? I am no man.” 

This crushed her. She lost a son but now, maybe, a husband. 

He was a man. Maria made love to her husband to prove it to him; he was no eunuch. They embraced and were fiercely intimate and, for a short time, forgot about their devastating loss. But it returned, That little boy would sleep no more in their bed. The other kids would forever have a phantom limb. They carried on as best they could but life was over in Yuma. 

They sobbed together. Tears fell for everyone but Irena who was born with no tear ducts. But she cried nonetheless, dry heaving more painful than no tears at all. Maria and Primo cried too, privately. But tears make no choices. Parents must choose. 

After a few more weeks and living off their savings and the community’s charity, they made a choice. Masonry was over for Primo but more than that, the memories of Freddie were too much in these everyday surroundings. By no means were they absolutely sure they were making the right choice, but still they chose.

The Esperanzas bought the home with a wad of cash. What the community had donated, the hundreds of dollars Primitivo had saved and the sale of the home. They had a chance if they acted now.  Pack what they can and board a bus to El Centro. There is no need for more pickers here in Yuma, but the newspaper tells of opportunity in California.

The bags were packed and in the morning they would depart. But tonight, Primo had one more task to complete. 

He had kept careful track of what had been donated by the Church. What Dale had contributed, they would keep, but the Community and the Church? He could not keep. So he collected the 23 dollars from the small wooden cask that was his family’s bank. He wrapped it in Spanish language newspaper. With much effort of one healthy hand, he tied the package in heavy string and set off across town to the Church. Along with so many other possessions lately, they had sold the horse, so he went on foot. He said good night to the children and Maria but before he left, Irena said, “ I want to walk with you Papa.” 

He thought about it but not before the others said they wanted to go as well. 

“But you need your sleep, my children,” he said in whispered, tender Spanish. 

“We want to go,” Dora said.

“No. You will not. Irena, you were first to ask so you can go, the rest of you, to bed,” Maria asserted and none of the children protested. They pretended to sleep but did not. They all feared another storm would come while Irena and Papa were on the road. 

They walked in pleasant silence across the night to the Catholic Church that had been their nucleus for so many years. Tonight they’d say goodbye to that nucleus. 

“Why are we giving the money back, Papa?” 

“It is not ours. What is not ours must be returned to those who are less fortunate. We can keep what is given by those with more, but this…” he held up the small bundle of cash, “this was given by people just like us and even with less. It should be given back.”

They arrived at the rectory just after 8 PM. 

“Wait here. Mija,” and Irena stood a good distance from the door of the building and could not hear. But she could see. Primo knocked on the door and Father emerged. She could see them talking and Father clearly refusing to take the money but Primo insisted. They spoke for a few more moments. Finally just as he was turning to leave, Father spoke and Papa turned to face him. Father extended his arms and embraced Papa. He returned the hug with his one good arm. And then they returned to a dark, quiet and anxious home.

The morning. They boarded the bus with all they could carry (including Ulysses) and left Yuma behind. The great memories in town, all overshadowed by one.

“I should have gone with them,” Irena had been thinking, unceasingly, for months and months. Periodically she’d think that for the rest of her life. While the family held each other and cried together, they didn’t speak of that day. They thought about it incessantly when they were not lost in fear about what life would be like in El Centro.