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J. Paul Ross << continued from Part 1 "I don't see why these people are so upset," her papa told the gray-haired man next to him. "Alls we're asking 'em to do is carry an ID. Course, I betcha half of 'em would already be back in Mexico if the sheriff raided the packing plant instead of doing those penny ante busts at the apartments across the street from me." "Yeah, but you know who owns the sheriff, right?" replied the man. "The plant owners, that's who: the same ones who brought the pachucos here in the first place, the same ones who own the mayor and the city council and everyone else. Fight the illegal alien invasion!" With his eyes glazed like marbles, she hadn't liked the man from the moment he'd smiled and said hello to her. She didn't like the funny way he stood or the sour way he smelled and most of all, she didn't like the shiny flask in his back pocket. She knew what people kept in those things and she was scared her papa would drink from that flask and turn into the person she sometimes had to hide from-the one who sneered and hollered, the one who cursed, the one who showed up to make things bad. She didn't want things to be bad again, didn't want them to be like they were when her papa lost his job and they had to leave the house with the green grass and the tall tree, didn't want it to be like it was when her mama went to go live with another family and love someone else's children. "You don't have to tell me about that," her papa replied to the man. "I used to be a knife sharp at the plant. Yep, started right outta high school. When you jumped the fence, you broke the law! Course, that was before they brought in all these taco-benders to break the union." "Really? I worked there for a bit. Kidney popper at first. Was on the gam tables before I hurt my back." "Were you there for the strike?" "Nah. This was years ago, back when things were different: back when you could raise a family working there and didn't take your life in your hands just walking onto the kill floor. What part of illegal don't you understand?" Wiping her nose, Cricket knew she shouldn't think about her mama. She always cried when she did that and it was getting too cold to cry. Her cheeks tingled, her breath came out in thin puffs and she wondered if it ever got cold enough to freeze the tears on a person's face so that their lashes grew icicles. Cricket started to giggle at this and she covered her mouth because she knew that grownups didn't like it if you smiled when they were angry; and since they all seemed to be angry today, she kept the smile to herself and went back to stomping the leaves in the gutters, crushing them until their remains were like broken potato chips. "That's why the governor's right," the gray-haired man went on. "Something has to be done about these illegals. Make your tacos somewhere else, poncho! That's why the people have to stand up and pass Prop 23. If we don't, nothing'll get done." Her papa spat on the ground. "Aw, it was the same thing after the last election. Damn politicians. Hell, the only one worth anything is Governor Brewster and I thought she was like all the others until I saw her on TV last night." "She did make some good points. Get back to your own country! Fact, it kinda made me sorry I didn't vote for her." "Me too. 'Specially after what she said about liberty not being- hey! Protect American jobs, not Mexico's!" The crowd had gotten thicker and the marchers were starting to yell back when Cricket saw her neighbor, Mrs. De Luca standing just up the street. The little girl went up on her tippy-toes to wave at the old woman who took care of her whenever her papa worked nights or when he had a bad day at work and came home with his eyes bloodshot and his steps uneven. At first, Cricket was sure her neighbor didn't see her because with her curly, white hair moving back and forth, the old woman seemed to be the only person in town who didn't care about the marchers, the signs or the shouting. Her plump fingers clutched around a plastic grocery bag and her dark eyes peering out flatly, she had that annoyed, impatient stare that made you feel guilty even when you hadn't done anything wrong. It was the same one she'd put on when the Mexicans across the street from them laughed too loud, the same one she used when her husband sat too long at the window while the oxygen tank beside him hissed and groaned. It was a hard look, one that never failed to make Cricket turn away and for a moment, she was sorry she'd tried to get her neighbor's attention. Cricket glanced up, her thin lips moving to tell her papa about the old woman, her eyes quickly moving over his round stomach and his heavy chest. She was hoping her papa would let Mrs. De Luca keep her company until the parade was over but when she finally got to her papa's whiskered face, she saw that he was drinking from the gray-haired man's flask and her stomach sank. His eyes were closed, the knob on his throat was moving up and down, and she turned away just in time to see Mrs. De Luca jostling her way through the marchers. Cricket waited for a moment before she tugged on her papa's leg. "Hold on a minute, honey," he coughed. "No more free rides! Me and-" "But it's Mrs. De Luca," Cricket said quietly. Her papa wiped his mouth. "It's my next door neighbor," he told the man. "She works at the Wal-Mart with me," he then added. "I work in the warehouse there. You know: half the pay and double the beaners." The man whistled through his teeth. "Hell, a job's a job, am I right? You're not above the law, poncho! And let's face it; if you don't want to be a dishwasher, it's there or the plant-and we all know the plant don't hire white folks no more." "You said it. The sons-a-bitches," her papa stated, returning the shiny flask. "Don't reward criminals!" By now, Mrs. De Luca had forced her way through the marchers and, pushing past the policemen and their clear plastic shields, she glared at Cricket's papa. "Mr. Hantz!" she said. "Just what are you thinking, taking your daughter out in this weather?" "Go be scabs in your own country! I'm showing my daughter the importance of standing up for-" "I don't think so. All you're doing is showing her how to catch pneumonia." Mrs. De Luca took Cricket's hand. "Come on, pumpkin; let's get you home. It's way too cold out here for a skinny little thing like you." Cricket gazed up. "Go ahead," muttered her papa. "I didn't realize how cold it was. Are your toesies getting a little chilly?" Cricket nodded. "Well, you go with Mrs. De Luca then. This is our country, not yours!" "But," she whimpered, "when will you-" "Don't worry about me; I saw some people from work over there and I'll get a ride back from them, okay? This won't last much longer. And when it's done, I'll make us some hot soup for dinner. Does that sound good? Go home, go now, and don't come back! Can you habla that, ese?" Again, Cricket nodded but didn't move. "Go on," her papa ordered. "Deport 'em all! Like I said, I'll be home in no time." When Cricket still didn't move, her papa smiled again and patted her head. "I promise. Now, do you still have the money I gave you for the bus?" Quickly checking her pocket, Cricket gave another nod. "That's good. I knew you wouldn't lose it. See, you were worried about nothing. Now tell Mrs. De Luca thank you." |
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ISSN 2150-6795 |