Love a Foot Above the Ground Read online

  “Please, keep them all safe. I promise to do an extra decade of the rosary each day they are at sea and I will take the next visit to the shrine much more seriously.” I kept that promise, too.

  My brothers were curious about life in Mexicali where Guillermo had spent more time, in the last couple years, than at his home in Chihuahua. He accommodated their interest, telling them about his day-to-day life that was spent, mostly, in school. There were trips, on occasion, to Calexico, the sister city on the U.S. side. I’m not sure exactly, but maybe it was at that point we learned another surprising thing about Guillermo. He spoke English!

  After that, part of each evening was spent speaking to me in English, teaching me basic words and phrases. If my brothers weren’t too exhausted they joined in. They added to the phrases they had picked up dealing with truck drivers or watching TV at the local cantina. One night Guillermo surprised me with a gift.

  “Here is that postcard I promised you.” I looked at the card with the photo of the large cathedral with two tall towers, just as he had said. “I asked my family to send these, too. I hope you will accept this set of books. Children’s books like those used to teach reading in grammar school in the United States. I used them to help learn English, even before I left for Mexicali. You may find this helpful too. This is how I taught myself a lot of the words.” He handed me a stack of small books, and a small paperback copy of a Spanish-English dictionary. I was touched and determined to impress him, so I worked very hard to make my way through the books.

  I saw him less after that, when shrimping season was in full swing. During shrimping season evenings were short so it never felt like we had enough time. Since he wasn’t on the same trawler as my father and brothers, some nights I would get no word from him at all. Whenever the boats were moored, for Sunday, rough weather, or as happened one time, a malfunction of the ship on which he was working with Carlos, Guillermo spent time with me.

  On occasion, he would come early enough for dinner, but usually after dinner, and we would sit in the courtyard and talk for a little while or walk. Off in the distance we could hear the sea lapping at the shore, if silence overtook us for a few moments. The moonlit seashore called to us. I would do extra chores during the day so my sister, Theresa, could chaperone. My younger sister Rosa begged to come along, too. She and Theresa would carry on a conversation of their own as they walked behind us. A giggle or a sigh sometimes reached us above their whispered words.

  Campers and locals often had a pit fire going in the chilly night air. We could hear chatter or singing, and smell the sweet wood burning, as Guillermo and I walked, arm-in-arm, along the seashore. The moonlight cast a spell so powerful that we often were struck speechless. The moon spoke for us, as did the rhythm of the sea. Timeless companions of sweethearts as I had grown to think of us by then.

  On the nights Guillermo was absent I missed him terribly. It brought him closer to me to sit and read those books he had given me. My younger brothers and sisters would gather around the table and I would read aloud to them—the sentence in English, first, then translating into Spanish for them. Soon, in the background, I could hear Theresa or Rosa, or even my mother, saying phrases or words in Spanish that I had read aloud in English. They had been listening, too, as they sat mending or sewing. Many times they were correct, or close, in their English version of a phrase or sentence. We all grew more and more excited about our ability with Inglès. Guillermo had brought so much excitement into our world. No more, though, than on the night of my quinceañera, the third week of November.

  6 A Woman of Fifteen

  My birthday celebration took place as we had planned for months. Mass, at the church in the afternoon, followed by a fiesta nearby. The party was held under a canopy, and umbrellas, set up near the cantina where there was a paved courtyard with a few café tables. The owner of the cantina, as in the past, had agreed to let us bring food over and store it in his kitchen. That way we could move, in procession, from the church to the outdoor area without returning home.

  That setting had worked well when my sister turned fifteen. More than a hundred people had turned up to wish Theresa well. Spilling over into the streets, it had turned into a block party. Mostly parish members showed up, but we had stray curiosity seekers, including a few tourists. No one told anyone to leave. All were welcome.

  Tables and chairs, borrowed from the church and elsewhere, provided added seating. Tables were covered in colorful cloth. Strings of twinkling lights hung from the canopy and the umbrellas so the area was well-lit, even after the sunset. Torches set around the edges added more light.

  We spent all morning on preparation of food that had been planned months ago as well. Several of the women in town were helping by making tortillas and tamales, salsa and other appetizers, as well as side dishes needed to feed such a large crowd. In our small town, a quinceañera was a lot like a church potluck, although my family supplied the meat and seafood for the grill, and the cake, of course.

  Ah, the cake...my mother was a wonderful baker. Our oven was a hand-me-down from the cantina, like our fridge. But it worked better than most wood stoves, baking more evenly with an electric oven. She had started to bake the round layers of cake two days before. The house was filled with the aroma of vanilla and spice, chocolate, too.

  As she had done for my sister, Mama created layer cakes in different flavors. They were set out in a tier of stands my father made to display them. My mouth waters even now thinking about my mother’s tres leches—three milk cake. Her pineapple coconut cake and my favorite—chocolate chili-spiced cake with fudge frosting, too. Each one decorated with colorful drizzles or flowers my sister had become skilled at adding to the cakes.

  Even with all my mother’s other duties, she regularly baked less flashy versions of her cakes for the cantina owner, along with her flan too. I did my best to learn at her side so that I could be as good a baker someday. Making those tiny flowers was harder for me than for my sister, who found beauty and pleasure in creating them.

  My father and brothers were at the site, early, setting up the tables and chairs. Several men in the town would bring their guitars and we would have singing and dancing. An area in the middle of the courtyard would serve as a dance floor.

  A large outdoor grill area was set up too. There my brothers and their friends would cook carne asada that had been marinating overnight, at home, and in the cantina refrigerator. They would grill fresh shrimp and fish, too, of course, along with peppers and corn, and onions. There was always rice, beans and tortilla so no shortage of food at an event like this one.

  When it was finally time to dress, my sister fixed my hair. My hair was long, falling to the middle of my back. She carefully curled and wound it so that part of my hair was set atop my head, while the rest hung down my back. My godparents had sent, as a gift, a small tiara of flowers that my sister carefully placed on my head. Then, she helped me apply makeup. It was the first time I had ever worn any—mascara, a little blush, and lipstick in a rosy color. I felt like I had, indeed, become a woman that day. Even before the Mass—Misa de acciòn de gracias, I was filled with gratitude for all I had received before reaching the end of my childhood.

  That was even before I put on my dress. My sister did my hair and makeup after I put on the petticoat she had worn. I expected to slip on the dress my sister had worn, too. My mother had me try it on ahead of time so she could hem it for me and adjust it elsewhere. I knew the white dress, in a delicate fabric, would fit perfectly thanks to my mother’s handiwork.

  What I did not know was that she had embellished the bodice and the skirt to make it my own. Tiny rose-colored flowers had been embroidered on the bodice and more were used to gather layers of lace added to the skirt. A rose-colored taffeta band added at the waist, tied in the back and made my waist seem smaller even than it was.

  “Mamacita,” I cried out when I set eyes on that dress. My sisters let out a round of ‘ahs’ as I settled into it, with help from Mama
and Theresa. I fought back tears, overwhelmed by the love each of those flowers represented. My mother must have worked on it after I was in bed, or perhaps, while I sat in the courtyard with Guillermo. In that moment I prayed.

  “Please, God, someday bless me with the ability to love as this woman does every day.”

  Mama could be a stern, unrelenting woman. She had disciplined all of us, many times, for sloth or anger, for a lie of omission or commission. Usually that was done by adding chores or withholding dessert. On occasion, she would tell my father to spank us. I could still feel the sting if I tried. Over the years my parents had grown wearier, as each new child was added to the brood, so spankings, that did not happen often anyway, almost never happened anymore. I resented the wall of opposition she could become, stubborn and unyielding, when she was convinced she was right. Perhaps, my resentment was strong because I was so much like her. In that moment, though, I knew how much I loved her and owed her in the way of thanks. I stammered, fighting tears, while trying to express the feelings that were flowing through me.

  “Mama, how can I, uh, how did you do this...find the time? How can I say...I love you?” I stopped as tears that filled my eyes threatened to spill out. I did not want one drop to touch that dress made from such love. My mother embraced me in a hug filled with the sweet scent of vanilla and spice. It was as though it came from her, directly, not from baking.

  “I know you love me, Bernadette. I love you too. Please, there will be time for tears, but not today. You are a woman and you must look like one, and you do! Ay, que Dios Mios, I am grateful for such a lovely, dutiful daughter. You make me proud, as your sister Theresa has done before you. It was her idea to do something to the dress with your favorite color.” I turned, and without regard for dress or hair or makeup, pulled my sister toward us so the three of us could be bound forever by that moment.

  A little later my father arrived, beaming with pride when he saw me in that dress. He was there to drive me to the church so that I did not get the dust of the road on the white dress. Or, on my slippers, another gift sent from my godparents. I had much to thank them for when they stood up for me at Mass.

  “Your carriage awaits, daughter. My father said, bowing, gallantly. He was dressed up too, wearing a traditional suit worn only on such occasions. The short black coat and black pants were embroidered with white thread and the coat had silver buttons. In his hand was a handsome sombrero.

  As I think of it now, it is one of the things I miss about being in the United States. Mexican American men don’t wear them much anymore, even ceremonially. I’ll blame it on the times, too. In the eighties it seems, even in Mexico, such traditions are gone. Unless, of course, a man plays in a Mariachi band. That day, my father said what he always said when he put on that suit.

  “It still fits, but it won’t for long if I continue to eat your mother’s fine cooking.” It was snug, even after my mother had moved the buttons a little without saying anything about it.

  “You are still a fine-looking man, Enrique,” my mother said, dressed now in her own simple indigo dress, with only a hint of tradition in the long, full skirt and at the bodice. She was a practical woman, and saved the spending on the spectacular, for me and for my brothers and sisters. With her hair done up in a stately bun, wearing makeup, a long mantilla, and an exquisite shawl around her shoulders, she was the perfect figure of the matron. I was so proud of both of them, as the three of us squeezed into the cab of the truck. My brothers had cleaned out the back of the truck and began to help my sisters climb in to the back.

  Just then, another truck pulled up. In the driver’s seat sat Guillermo. He hopped out of the truck, dusting his pants legs as he strode toward us. I sucked in a gulp of air at the sight of him. There was my modern man, decked out like my father and brothers in traditional finery. He also carried a sombrero.

  “Carlos and Juanita let me borrow their truck. I came to see if I could help transport the beautiful women in this household to keep the dust of the road off their feet.” He smiled broadly, making my heart flip-flop as it always did. I heard my sisters giggling as they waited for some response to his offer.

  “That’s kind of you, Guillermo,” my mother said. “Theresa, please help your sisters into the truck. If you hold Antonia on your lap, I believe all of you can ride as Guillermo suggests. Sì, Guillermo?”

  “Sì, Señora, if you will excuse me, I’ll go see what I can do to help,” he looked directly at me as he stepped away. “I’ll see you all at the church, shortly.” My father, who had said nothing, until then, spoke.

  “Gracias, Guillermo, your help is much appreciated,” he said. There was a tone of gruffness in his voice as he uttered those words of gratitude. It was hard to believe he meant them. I looked sideways at my mother who fought to keep a smile off her lips. Later, at the party, she told me that my father liked Guillermo. He already knew that someday, soon, he would have to give his daughter to this man.

  “But your father is still wrestling with the mixed feelings of loss and gratitude that men often experience at a quinceañera—especially when there is a young man already waiting in the wings to claim a daughter for his own.”

  “I guess I understand, Mama. They seem to be fine now.” I watched my father and Guillermo, not too far away, speaking to each other. My mother watched them too.

  “I almost laughed, Querida, recalling that same tone in my own father’s voice. My father spoke the same way to Enrique years ago.” As she confided in me about her father she laughed. “At least your father kept the conversation short! But look at them now. Guillermo is relentless in learning what he can from your father about fishing. Your father doesn’t mind. Don’t tell your brothers, Bernadette, but he wishes they were as curious about fishing as this man who will end up running a ranch someday.”

  “Guillermo is a very curious man and has come here to learn, Mama. And Papa is just the man to teach him what he wants to know,” I replied. Secretly I prayed that Guillermo continued to listen, more than he spoke, and did not share his shocking views about fishing. With their heads close together, as they drank a beer, they seemed relaxed so I felt some of the tension leave me. A quinceañera is not totally without mixed feelings for the daughter, either.

  The Mass at the church had gone as planned. Even though I was nervous I had not shown it. I had spoken, when I was asked to do so, in a clear, firm voice, not squeaky like a mouse. I felt Guillermo’s eyes on me the entire time. I struggled to remain earthbound, lifted almost off my feet by the unbelievable good fortune in my life. I must have succeeded in clinging to the ground since no one said anything to me about doing otherwise.

  The whole evening was like that. I floated in that procession from the church to the pavilion, with my parents at my side and the handsome Guillermo walking behind me, with my brothers and sisters. I was drawn along by the vision of the canopied courtyard, sparkling as dusk settled on our town, and the crowd gathered. The feast, set out on long tables, was spectacular. The swirl of mesquite rose from the grill to greet us. The whole place blazed with color and light—color that deepened with the transition from day to night.

  My father and I did not skip a step as we danced, while dozens of happy faces gazed at us, setting the fiesta in motion. After my dance with Father ended, he almost brought me to tears. He took me by the hand to Guillermo who was waiting at the edges of the courtyard. My Guillermo was bathed in a light that was all his own. Placing my hand into Guillermo’s, Father stepped away as Guillermo and I moved to the center of the dance floor. We were soon swept up in the music, joined by my father and mother, and then, by others. Moved by the music and the mood, we celebrated with our whole bodies, reveling in the rhythms of joy.

  Dinner was delicious, or so I was told many times that night, and the cakes beyond compare. There were presents, including my beautiful crystal rosary from Guillermo. That rosary captured the light, sparks jumping from it as I held it in my hand while we danced. What I remembered most was Gu
illermo. Gliding with him, a foot or more above the ground as he clasped me in his arms. Guillermo gazing into my eyes, lights of the flaming torches flickering in them. Guillermo speaking to me, of his love for me and his intentions to tell his parents about me. And, if my parents consented, his hope we would be married in a year and would never spend another Christmas apart.

  “Of course, only if that would make you as happy as it would make me,” he said as we swirled about the dance floor.

  “Nothing could make me happier, Guillermo. Of course I will marry you, if your parents and my parents agree.” I did not allow myself to think about how this modern man of mine, in the finest clothes of tradition, would make this work. All worry about how this complicated his plans to go to college and how our marriage might impact on conflicts within his family, hovered in the dark beyond the edges of that pavilion lit by the blinding light of our new love. Our spirits soared.

  7 Tug of the earth below

  “Oh my, Bernadette, you were just like Cinderella, weren’t you? Dancing with your prince at the ball, only you didn’t even have to wait for him to use the glass slipper to find you!” I gushed, completely under the spell of Bernadette and Guillermo’s love story. I was struggling so hard to keep up, without being carried away by the story—to listen with my heart as Bernadette had asked.

  “I suppose you could say that, Jessica. I felt like a princess that night for sure. But this is not a fairy tale. Or, maybe what I should say is that love stories don’t always come without a measure of trouble.”

  “That’s true. There was trouble for Jane Eyre and Rochester before they had a kind of sad, happy ending. Is that what this is like for you, Bernadette—a story with a sad happy ending?” As I recall, Bernadette thought for a moment before answering me.